CHANGING
by SupernaturallyEgocentric
Summary: Since being bitten by a skinwalker, Sam's senses have become super-powered which, as Dean points out, is kind of cool. But now, with vengeful hunters after them and Lucifer making a push to get a Yes out of Sam, life is getting pretty freaking complicated
1. Chapter 1

He heard Dean coming toward the bathroom and managed to get his sleeve rolled down over the bandage before his brother opened the door.

"What's the hold up?"

"No hold up. I'm ready." Sam pushed past him. He picked up his already-packed duffel off the bed, strode to the door and out to the car.

On the road they didn't talk much, both still exhausted from their last hunt. Skinwalkers were a son-of-a-bitch to hunt under any circumstances. Two of them, in the middle of a Michigan winter, was indescribable.

Sam slept through the morning and when they switched places toward mid-afternoon, Dean crashed until they stopped in early evening in a small town neither of them could name.

When they stumbled into their chilly motel room, Sam laid out the usual salt lines at the window and door. Dean used the bathroom and then fell into bed and asleep almost immediately.

Once Dean was snoring, Sam went into the bathroom, locked the door and unwrapped his arm.

The bite was deep, and ugly. He'd cleaned it well before wrapping it and it didn't look infected, which was good, but he'd have to be careful, keep it hidden until it healed.

Hell, he'd have to keep it hidden even after it healed. Having to field questions from Dean about what the hell had bitten him - it wouldn't be good.

He'd screwed up. Screwed up good. When a skinwalker bit you, that was it. Instant new skinwalker.

He'd turn. When, he didn't know. Lore was a little light on that. But he'd turn. At the thought, a wave of fear swept over him. _What the hell am I going to do? _

Remembering the eyes and the teeth on the thing that had bitten him, he felt a clammy sweat break out on his forehead and leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on his face and neck. He looked into the mirror. His face was white and strained; hazel eyes exhausted.

"Sleep," he said to his reflection. "Sleep would be good."

He smeared some more antibiotic and aloe on the bite, wrapped it up again.

Hiding it was bullshit. At some point, he was going to have to tell Dean. No matter what he told himself about hiding the bite, figuring a way out - there _was _no way out. Not out of changing, and not out of telling his brother.

He'd almost rather die than tell Dean. His brother already carried so much crap around, most of it from Sam. _Damn it_, why had this happened? Why had he _allowed _this to happen? Wasn't it bad enough he carried demon blood? Bad enough he'd opened the gate to Hell? Wasn't it enough he'd started the freaking apocalypse?

It was all over now. He was going to become what he most feared; what Dean had always feared he would become. A monster.

Strength suddenly gone, Sam slid to the floor. He curled up on his side, face pressed into the cold tiles, and wept, trying not to wake his sleeping brother.

* * *

The sound of a cell phone dragged Dean out of the best sleep he'd had in days. The room was dark, but he could see the beginnings of dawn through the curtained window.

Sam's voice rumbled low in the bathroom. After a minute, he came out, cell in hand.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," he answered groggily. "What's up?"

"Bobby called. We gotta go back." Sam's voice was tired.

Confused, Dean raised himself up on his elbows. "Back? Back where?"

"Rawlings," Sam answered tersely. "Bobby just got word of another killing. A jogger, stomach ripped open, partially eaten. Left on a jogging trail. _After _we killed the other two."

"_Damn_!"

"We missed one."

"_Damn it_!"

Sam stared at his brother. He should tell him, tell him now. His arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat. _Tell him, just tell him_!

Cursing bitterly, Dean climbed off the bed, stomped into the bathroom, slammed the door behind him.

Sam shut his eyes, drew in a deep breath. _Keep it together._

They had to go back, take care of whatever was back there still killing people. When that was done, then he'd tell Dean. They'd figure out what to do.

At the click of the bathroom door opening, he crossed quickly to his bed, which he'd never used, and picked up his duffel, which he'd never unpacked. "I'll be in the car." He was out the door before Dean could respond.

Eyes narrowed, Dean stared after his brother. Something was wrong. He'd seen him through too many crises to miss the signs. And it was something more than the screw-up in Rawlings.

Rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin, Dean sighed. It was like pulling teeth to get anything out of the kid and right now, they simply didn't have the time. They had to backtrack, find the monster before it killed anyone else.

Christ, he hated skinwalkers. Sneaky freaking bastards.

The Impala's horn blasted and Dean picked up his bag and walked outside, sliding into the driver's seat with a grin.

"Keep your pants on, Sammy," he said, determinedly ignoring the dark circles carved under his brother's eyes. "All right! Let's go kill us some monster!"

* * *

"This must be it," Sam held a shotgun, loaded with silver shot, ready to fire.

Dean crouched down, studied the blood-soaked snow. "What is it, about five miles from the last kill?"

"About that, yeah." Sam kept his eyes on the surrounding trees. "Roommate said she jogged out here almost every morning."

"Easy target," Dean commented.

"They brought dogs in. Trail went dead after a couple of hours."

Dean's lip curled. "Probably when it shifted."

Sam nodded and looked around uneasily.

There was something wrong.

_The panther watched them. __He'd known they would return for him. __Hunters. Murderers. __The killers of his mate. His son._

_He could smell them - the scent of human sweat and adrenaline. __He would kill them. D__rink their blood, strip the meat from their bones. _

_They would die in terror and agony. He would have his v__engeance._

A sharp chill snaked up his spine. Sam racked the shotgun. "Dean."

Dean rose quickly, gun in hand. "What?"

Sam turned in a quick circle, scanning the trees, the bushes on the side of the trail. "Something's here."

Dean checked the silver blade in his belt, cocked his gun, ready. "Where?"

"I don't know. But it's here."

"Good enough for me." Dean raised his voice. "Here, kitty, kitty!"

The panther bared its fangs - three inches long. Sharp. Lethal. Yellow eyes burned with hatred as the humans circled the area below the tree where it lay hidden.

The big cat gathered itself.

_Kill. Destroy._

_Feed._

It happened fast.

Sam was a few feet away from Dean. He didn't know what made him turn. The creak of the branch as the cat leapt, the strong coppery smell of the blood staining its coat - the shifter's blood calling out to him.

But he turned, saw Dean, and the cat above him starting its leap.

"Dean!" He fired. The cat was blown back against the tree, its own blood now mingling with that of its last victim, mouth twisted with rage and pain. Sam stepped in close, stuck the shotgun's muzzle against the big cat's head and fired again. Its head disappeared, spattering him with a spray of blood, bone and fur.

At his brother's shout, Dean had twisted and rolled away. He came to stand beside him now, staring down at the shifter. "Nice reflexes, Sammy. Thanks."

Sam stared at him, eyes stretched wide. _Thanks_? He shook his head numbly. The cat's death, its hate and rage, raked across his soul. Was _this _what waited for him?

_No! _

Shaking, Sam let the shotgun fall, turned to Dean to finally, _finally _tell him - but nothing would come out. He felt his legs start to go.

"Sam!"

Cursing, Dean grabbed him, kept him from falling onto the bloody corpse. He got an arm around him, guided him away from the cat and over to the other side of the clearing, parking him beneath a huge oak. Which, after a quick glance back at the dead cat, he checked for lurking shifters.

Sam couldn't stop shaking. His big body quaked as chills swept over him; nausea rose hard and fast. Groaning, he leaned to the side, vomiting on the grass. Mouth tight, eyes worried, Dean said nothing, supported him through the worst of it.

When it ended, Dean helped his brother up, moved him away from the mess and parked him underneath another tree. He handed Sam a bottle of water, watched as he rinsed out his mouth and then drained the bottle.

The desolation in Sam's eyes scared the hell out of Dean. "What the hell is wrong?"

_It's time. Past time. _Sam held out his hand. Dean pulled him up. Once up, it was hard for Sam to look into his brother's face. Steeling himself, he said, "I'm sorry, Dean."

"For what?" Dean was getting more scared with each second. He tried a tentative, nervous grin. "Come on, Sammy, what could be worse than starting the apocalypse?"

"I'm sorry," Sam repeated. _Sorry I'm such a screw-up. Sorry you're saddled with me for a brother. Sorry I was ever freaking born._

He slowly pulled off his jacket and then rolled up his shirt sleeve.

Dean stared at the bandage, not understanding.

Hands shaking so badly he could barely make them obey, Sam unwrapped the bandage.

Frowning, Dean stared at the bite. "Where the hell did you get -" He froze. Seeing the look on Dean's face, Sam closed his eyes, fighting hard to hold it together. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Dean's eyes flicked to the dead shifter, then back to Sam. A sharp pain lanced his chest. He wondered in a detached sort of way whether he might be having a heart attack.

That might be a good thing, he thought calmly.

The pain eased after about a century. With no idea what to say about the bite, the shifter, about almost anything, Dean clung desperately to what he knew. He patted Sam awkwardly on the shoulder, re-wrapped the bandage and gestured to the corpse.

"We've gotta take care of this."

Sam swallowed, nodded.

The ground was too frozen to dig. The brothers covered the cat with relatively dry branches, salted it, watched it burn.

And tried not to think.


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby opened the door. One look at the boys and his mouth turned down. "Oh balls, what now?"

Dean shouldered past him. "This story goes better with whiskey." He glanced back at Sam, who was hanging back.

"Get your butt in here, Sammy. If anyone can find a way out of this, it's Bobby and you freaking know it."

Sam obeyed, reluctantly.

"Sam." Bobby closed the door, gave him a hard stare. "You look like crap."

Sam shrugged.

Bobby looked over at Dean, who was already pouring himself a second shot. "What the hell's going on?"

Dean motioned him over, handed him a full glass. "Drink up. You're gonna need it."

Bobby put the glass down on the table, hard, spilling it. "Stop screwing around, boy. Talk."

Dean drained his glass, put it down very carefully. He sat down heavily on one of the worn-out chairs. All his mad drained right out of him. He felt as old as God. Older.

"Sorry, Bobby. It's been a bad week." He paused, hating to even say the words. "We had some trouble. Sam, he -"

"Dean." Sam came forward. "It's mine to tell."

With no hesitation, he took off his jacket, pushed up his sleeve and unrolled the bandage.

Bobby's eyes widened at the sight of the torn flesh, now starting to heal.

"What was it?" he asked in a low voice.

"Skinwalker," Sam answered flatly.

Bobby paled. Fumbling for his glass he drained what was left in it and looked at Dean. "Guess you were right about _this_."

"No kidding." Dean rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Man, the hits just keep coming, don't they? Bobby, what the hell do we do?"

Seeing the thinly-veiled pain and fear on the faces of what remained of his family, Sam had an epiphany.

He was done. Just done.

Done with the self-pity, the guilt, the fear. All of it.

He was sick of being the weak one, the one who had to be watched, who couldn't be trusted.

He was just freaking _done _with it.

He would _not _become something uncontrollable, something savage to be hunted and killed. He wouldn't put his family through that. Hell, he wouldn't put _himself_ through that.

He would figure out how to beat this. If it couldn't be beaten, he would die by his own hand.

He would protect his family.

With that decision, a kind of peace settled over him and he smiled. A very small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

Dean and Bobby were looking at him with identical, carefully expressionless faces. Sam held their gaze.

"Guys - I'm not dead yet."

* * *

Over a dinner of fast-food fried chicken, Dean shook a drumstick at Sam. "You know, I wish that bastard Azazel weren't dead. I'd like to kill him all over again."

Sam's brow creased. "What's he got to do with me being bitten?"

"When he fed you demon blood, it's like he drew a big freaking target on your chest. 'Here's Sammy, World, come poop on him!'"

Bobby snorted.

Even Sam had to smile. "Yeah, well, I'm a little tired of getting pooped on." He took another piece of chicken from the bucket on the table. "I think it's somebody else's turn."

Dean popped open another beer. "So what the hell do we know about skinwalkers? We've always used silver on them, bullet or blade. There's not much else in Dad's book.

"Most of what I dug up is Navajo-based," Bobby said. "They're supposed to be witches who use magic to take the form of different animals."

"Well, we know they can do a lot more than that," Sam objected. "They take the form of people, too."

Dean grimaced, remembering St. Louis. "Bastards."

"Thing is," Bobby said, "shapeshifters, skinwalkers, there's so many different kinds of, uh, creatures out there, I don't think there's any kind of hard and fast rule for what they are and what can kill 'em. All we can do is go with what we know and try to find out more."

"Have you ever heard of anyone who's been bitten and survived?"

Bobby shook his head. "People who get bit tend to get dead at the same time."

Sam nodded, trying not to be disappointed. He'd already known that.

"Normally I'd be calling around to other hunters for information. But I don't think that's a good idea in this situation." Bobby went on. He pushed his plate back and sighed. "Hunters can be a bit close-minded about things like this. Some of them get the idea one of us is infected, they might decide to come take care of the problem themselves."

"No, we're not asking for help," Dean said sharply. He knew the other two were thinking the same thing he was. Word was already making the rounds about Sammy releasing Lucifer and starting the apocalypse. They didn't need to give someone another reason to kill Sam.

It wasn't like the two of them were hard to find, after all. Everyone knew how close they were to Bobby.

"I think," Sam said slowly, "I'm going to have to play guinea pig."

Dean frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we watch me. Watch for changes. See what happens." He looked at Bobby. "If something happens, you can lock me in the panic room."

"Should work. I'll check it, make sure it's panther-proof."

Sam flinched, the food in his mouth tasting suddenly like ashes.

Bobby cursed himself. "Sorry, kid."

Sam shook his head. "It's okay. I can't afford to be touchy. If I'm going to get through this without hurting anyone - " he broke off. "Crap." He stood up, started clearing the table. "We've got to treat this just like any other job."

"Sam -" Dean said, exasperated, "you do get this isn't your fault, don't you? You - Got - Bit! It's not like you walked up to the bastard and stuck your arm in its mouth!"

"Dean, I get it, okay, I get it!" Sam snapped. He drew in a deep breath_. _"I guess it's just starting to get on my nerves, wondering when I'm going to turn furry."

"You both need some sleep," Bobby said firmly.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, glad Bobby had stepped in. His nerves were on the ragged side. "You got that right."

"Bobby -" Sam stopped, then continued. "You're always there for us. Thank you. I don't think you hear that often enough - we don't say it often enough," he corrected himself.

"You're family." Bobby reached out, patted Sam's shoulder. "You got that?"

"Yes, sir."

Dean sighed, impatient. "Are we done with our moment now?"

"Not yet." Sam went to his brother, pulled him into a hug. "Thanks, Dean. I know we still have some things to work out, but - thanks."

When Sam stepped back, Dean said crushingly, "You're welcome, Francine. Bed, now. Bobby was right. You do look like crap."

"Let's check out the panic room first," Sam said matter-of-factly. "I'm going to sleep there."

Dean's lips tightened.

"You think you need to this soon?" Bobby asked.

"Why take a chance?"

Dean drained the last of his beer. "Okay, then. Let's go."

* * *

Dean sat up on the couch, heart pounding. The living room was dark, the house still. He listened intently, trying to figure out what had woken him.

He could hear Bobby snoring from his bedroom. The clicking of the clock on the living room wall. The steady blast of the furnace; the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

Uneasy, he got out of bed and used the bathroom, then padded silently down the stairs to the chilly basement. Dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, he shivered as he looked through the window of the panic room door, saw Sam motionless under a pile of blankets. His breathing was even, regular.

Things to work out.

Yeah. Damned right.

Sam had chosen to follow Ruby. He'd left his brother, his blood, and followed a demon. It stung.

He couldn't figure it out. What had tied Sam to Ruby so tight? Had it just been the blood? Or the blood mixed with sex?

And see, right there, that was another thing. How the hell could Sam have slept with her? Sure, the body was human, and beautiful, but what was inside her was neither.

How could Sam have stared into those eyes, known a demon was in there, and still slept with her?

Dean sighed. He knew he would get past this eventually. Sam was his brother. He loved him. Always had, always would. Nothing could change that.

But _damn_.

Thing was, he knew he carried part of the blame. If he'd listened to Sammy, found a way past Ruby's lies.

If he hadn't called his brother a monster.

He regretted that more than anything. If he'd been able to hold his temper, maybe they wouldn't have fought. Sam wouldn't have gone with Ruby, wouldn't have killed Lilith, raised Lucifer, started the apocalypse.

Maybe.

Or, maybe it _was _destiny. Maybe Sam had been fated to raise Lucifer.

Nah.

It had been a screw-up, that was all. A massive one, sure, but fate had nothing to do with it.

The one good thing to come out of that fiasco had been sinking the knife into Ruby. Now _that_ he had enjoyed.

Hadn't been for Lucifer rising from the pit right after, it would have been a good night.

He touched the amulet his brother had given him so many years ago; remembered the expression on Sam's young face. He'd just found out that monsters were real, and Dad was nowhere around. All he'd had was Dean to protect him.

Dean's hand tightened on the amulet. _I'm still here, Sam. I won't give up on you. No matter what. And I won't let you give up either._


	3. Chapter 3

Bobby pulled the thermometer out of Sam's mouth.

"102 deg." He wrote the temp down in the journal he'd started on Sam's "condition" fourteen days ago.

"That's a week at over 100 deg., three days at 102. So far your temperature's the only thing out of whack." Bobby furrowed his brow in thought. "Anything else we need to know about?"

Sam shook his head. "No."

Long body stretched out on the couch, hands laced comfortably across his stomach, Dean asked idly, "No fangs? No fur?"

Sam shot his brother the finger.

Dean grinned. "Not counting the hair on the palms of your hands, of course."

Bobby winced. "Oh, thanks for that picture."

"Hey, been there, Naired that. Just trying to lighten the mood." Dean stretched and yawned. "Sunshine here looks a little moody."

"Dean, shut up!" Sam exclaimed impatiently. "What do you think, Bobby? Looks good, huh?"

Bobby was loathe to stifle the hope he saw in the young man's eyes.

"It's early days yet, Sam," he cautioned. "The full moon is tomorrow. I don't think that works on shifters and skinwalkers the same as werewolves, but we've got to cover all our bases."

Sam paled a little at the "w" word. "I know."

"The temperature rise doesn't have to mean anything," Bobby reassured him, exchanging a quick glance with Dean.

"I _know_." Sam rose, paced restlessly around the room. It felt small today. Claustrophobic.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam ignored him, continuing to pace, unable to settle.

"Sam?" Dean sat up.

"I'm fine!" Sam snapped. "I'm just not used to all this sitting around."

"Yeah, I know." Dean grinned. "Me either. But it does give us a chance to catch up with Doctor Sexy."

Sam smiled but his heart wasn't in it. His head ached. He looked out the window at the gray sky, the piles of melting snow lumped here and there.

Blowing out an impatient breath, he headed for the front door.

His brother caught him at the door. "Hold up, where you going?"

"I need some air." He looked into Dean's searching eyes, tried another small smile. "Just going a little stir crazy, waiting. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Dean grabbed Sam's jacket from the hook beside the door, thrust it at him. "It's freezing outside."

"Thanks, _Mom." _

"You're welcome, baby brother." Dean cuffed him lightly on the shoulder.

As the door closed behind Sam, Dean went back to Bobby. He passed the time with small talk and beer. And kept an eye out the window for his brother's return.

Sam strode restlessly across the junkyard, skirting the high stacks of crumpled cars, the monster piles of parts and the occasional car up on blocks.

The cold air felt good. After a few minutes in the open, he felt less like his skin was about to crawl off his bones.

Man, he wanted _out _of here. He was tired of sitting around waiting for something to happen. He was tired of being watched, even when he knew damned well he needed watching.

He was tired of feeling helpless.

Helpless. Because, damn it, how do you watch for something when you don't know what you're watching for?

What the hell do you do when a temperature, an itch, a _freaking_ headache could mean you're about to turn into a monster?

No. You know what he was really tired of? He was sick and tired of all this stupid crap happening to him!

Sam shook himself. Calm down, idiot.

Okay. Okay. Like Bobby always says: Positive spin, positive spin.

He tried to think past the headache. Well. Maybe the demon blood still left in his system had given him immunity to the skinwalker's bite. Maybe the fever was the blood burning off the infection.

_Maybe _this whole new level of freak could finally work for him.

Sam thought about the possibilities of that for a minute, then laughed derisively.

So, then all they'd have to worry about is stopping Lucifer, the apocalypse and staying away from any stray hunter who might want to kill him? He ran a shaking hand through his dark hair.

Screw it. It would be done soon. Just a few more weeks and he and Dean would be back on the road, working jobs. They'd find a way to shove Lucifer back into his freaking box and all this crap would be done with. Forgotten.

The growl of a engine caught his attention and Sam swung around quickly. He could see the house down at the other end of the yard, and a truck pulling up in front of it. Two men climbed out, clad in jeans and jackets. One of them held a shotgun.

He stiffened, crouching down beside a mostly-crunched Buick Skylark.

The rifleman started for the house, but his partner held him back. After what looked like a short, but sharp, argument, the gunman stomped back to the truck and tossed the shotgun into the cab, and the two men continued on to the house.

Eyes intent, he watched as Bobby opened the door and invited the two inside. He knew them, then. Friends? What about the shotgun?

Hunters.

Moving fast, Sam worked his way to the back of the house, keeping out of sight of the windows. The back door was locked. He picked it open easily and slid silently inside.

"Yeah, me and Bill, we were working a job over by Sioux Falls. Demon possession. Finished up, thought we'd stop by, say hey."

"Hey." Dean's smile didn't reach his eyes.

Bobby glanced at Dean, then at Bill. He sighed inwardly. "You guys want a beer?"

"Oh, hell yeah," Carl said enthusiastically.

Bill shook his head, took a seat.

When Bobby came back with Carl's beer, the room was dead quiet. Dean was watching Bill, who was pretending not to notice.

He handed the beer to Carl, who thanked him with a smile. "Haven't heard of anything happening in Sioux Falls," Bobby probed. "Just the one demon?"

"Just the one, yeah."

"Everything go okay?"

"Sure," Carl nodded. "No problem. Devil's trap, salt, exorcism. The usual."

"No shortage of demons these days," Bill said sourly.

"That's true," Dean agreed, meeting the hunter's unfriendly eyes. The weight of his .45 felt good under his shirt.

Silently cursing his partner's surly behavior, Carl said, "Yeah, the bastards have been keeping us all busy. I talked to Jeff last week and he told me -"

"Where's Sam?" Bill interrupted.

Bobby jerked, slightly.

"Yeah, don't often see you without your brother," Carl jumped in gamely. "He out?"

Dean grinned wolfishly. "Yep."

"Be back soon?"

"Nope."

_Crap_. _"_Something wrong, Dean?"

"Other than the fact you think I'm a freaking idiot? Oh, _hell_ no."

Carl looked at Bobby warily, eyes widening as his old friend pulled a shotgun out from behind the desk.

"You two should go now," Bobby said evenly.

Bill growled and stood. Dean pulled out his revolver.

"Your brother raised Lucifer from hell! He started the damned apocalypse!" Bill growled. "You really think we're gonna let that go?"

Sam padded through the house. He carried the demon blade.

He would protect his family.

"You should go," Bobby repeated. He racked the shotgun.

Still sitting, Dean cocked the .45. His eyes felt hot. He wanted to shoot these assholes. Bad. Because sure as shit they were going to try and kill Sam.

He rose from his chair, intent clear.

"Dean, no," Bobby warned him.

"Why the hell not?" Dean snarled. "You know what they came here for!"

Blue eyes wide, Carl held up both hands. "Bobby -"

"Go. Now."

"I've known you for fifteen years!"

"Which is why I'm letting you walk out of here, Carl. Be smart. Move your ass."

The outsiders stepped back. Bill's face was red with rage. Carl, his eyes disbelievingly on Bobby, was very pale.

"We should kill these pricks," Dean said harshly.

"I'd rather not get any more blood on the damned carpet," Bobby retorted. "You two. Last chance. Out. And don't come back."

"You got it, Bobby," Carl said quickly. Reluctant to turn his back on Dean, he backed to the front door.

Bill followed him, reluctantly. "This isn't over," he spat back over his shoulder.

"No shit, dickwad." Dean followed them outside, watched them drive away. Once they'd turned off the driveway onto the main road, he turned to Bobby, who was looking a little sad at the loss of an old friend.

"We should've killed them."

"Can't kill 'em all."

Dean looked at him sardonically. "No?"

Bobby scanned the junkyard and frowned.

"Where's Sam?"

The truck pulled away.

Relieved, angry, upset - a million different emotions storming through him - Sam dropped the curtain and stepped back from the window.

Dean and Bobby moved into the junkyard. As they moved farther away from the house, he could hear the scuff of their boots on the ground; the brush of clothing against one of the junkers. Their voices calling him. He didn't answer.

He stiffened.

He could _hear _their _breathing_.

Sam's eyes dilated. He cocked his head, tilted his head this way, and that. Sniffed.

Beer. Stale whiskey. Gun oil. The unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink.

The chill from the open basement door, and the room beneath, smelled of darkness; of his own panic and fear. Uneasy, he shied away from it, stepped to the still open front door.

The air outside - God, there were so many _smells_. Tires, pine, snow, _rabbit_! He twisted his head from side to side, inhaling, identifying, reveling.

On his way back to the house, Dean spotted him. "Sam!"

Dean's relief had its own smell. So did the irritation beneath it. Sam's eyes widened, darkened.

And as Dean and Bobby came closer, his nostrils flared, tasted the air.

He could smell _them_, their meat and skin, the blood moving through their veins.

_They smelled good._

With a cry, he whirled and ran back into the house.

"Oh, crap!" Dean started after him.

Bobby grabbed him. "_Did you see his eyes?"_

Dean pulled away and ran into the house, Bobby close behind.

Inside, Sam's feet thundered down the basement stairs. They heard the slam of the panic room door. Dean and Bobby pounded downstairs after him, passing the demon blade lying discarded on the basement floor.

They couldn't see anything through the panic room window. The room was dark. At a nod from Dean, Bobby opened the door.

"Stay out." The voice was deep, rasping.

"Sammy?"

"Stay - out." It was almost, _almost _a growl.

They could see him now, tucked into a corner of the shadowy room. He sat on the floor, arms wrapped tight around his knees, rocking slowly back and forth. His eyes were lambent.

"Sammy," Dean whispered.

"Go." Sam's voice was thick with fear, and something else Dean couldn't quite identify.

At a reluctant nod from Dean, Bobby shut the door, bolted it, then closed the window.

Dean tried to breathe. His lungs didn't seem to want to work. He stared desperately at Bobby. "What the hell do we do now?" he choked out.

Bobby's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Now we wait."


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn was a long time coming.

"Guys?"

Dozing on the floor next to the panic room door, Dean jerked awake. "Sam?"

He jumped up and opened the window. Sam's tired but familiar hazel eyes stared back.

"Oh, Jesus, Sam. Thank God."

Bobby clapped Dean on the shoulder, a wide smile on his face.

"Open the door, okay?" Sam said wearily.

"Oh _hell_, yeah." Dean yanked open the door, pulled his brother out and into a hug. "Man, you scared the _crap _out of us."

"I scared me, too."

"You okay?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I'm good."

Bobby snorted. "Have either of you, _ever_, admitted to being anything but "good"?" He hugged Sam, felt a slight tremor in the younger man's body. "I'm getting too old for this crap, boy."

"I'm sorry, Bobby."

"Don't apologize again or I'll have to kick your ass. How about we go upstairs, get something to eat?"

"Sounds great," Sam admitted.

"I'm starving," Dean agreed. "And _man_, I gotta pee." He cuffed his brother affectionately on the head and then, almost giddy with relief, ran up the stairs, yelling back, "Hey, Bobby, _pancakes_?"

Usually up for a good half dozen of Bobby's pancakes, Sam barely managed two this morning. The smell of the maple syrup, after a few minutes, turned his stomach.

After pushing his food around for a while, he took his plate to the trash and scraped his food into it.

"Sorry, Bobby. Stomach's a little off, I guess." Sitting back down, he picked up his coffee and drank, hoping the caffeine wouldn't screw with his stomach, too.

Bobby eyed him. Regretting the necessity, he asked, "What happened yesterday, Sam?"

Dean frowned. "Bobby, do we have to do this now?"

"If we're going to get hold of this thing," Bobby said, hardening himself against the distress in Sam's face, "we need to know everything. And Sam's the only one that can tell us."

Grudgingly, Dean nodded.

Hand shaking, Sam put his coffee down.

He did _not_ want to do this. He didn't want to see _that look _on Dean's face again. The one he'd seen when he'd first told Dean about his visions. The same one, but worse, when Dean saw him drinking demon blood. And when Sam had left his brother for Ruby.

The look that said _monster._

After a minute, Bobby prompted him, gently. "Sam?"

Sam steeled himself. He _would _do this. He'd promised.

"Something _has _changed," he started. "I don't know how far it's gone, how far it's going to go, but - _I'm_ changing. Yesterday -" He stopped, remembering it, _feeling _it.

Dean shifted uneasily.

"My senses - my hearing, sense of smell, my vision - they're _all _changing, getting stronger." The words were coming faster now. "I can hear everything, smell everything. Last night, in the dark, I could _see_, _everything." _

Dean started to speak. Bobby stopped him.

"After those guys left yesterday," Sam went on, "I was angry, I was _so_ angry. I hated that those guys had come here. I felt -" he tried to shake off the remembered guilt.

"When you guys went out to the yard to look for me, I could _hear _you. I don't mean just your calling me, but your footsteps, too, and when you were talking to each other, even when you were at the other end of the yard."

Sam was getting a lot of confusion from Dean. He leaned forward, frustrated, trying to get it across. "Damn it, Dean - I could hear you _breathing _from at least two hundred yards away. Do you think that's _normal_?"

"Sammy, it's okay -"

Sam rode over him. "And when you came back toward the house, I could smell you, I could smell _everything_! I could even smell tobacco on you and you haven't smoked in freaking weeks!" He was almost shouting.

"Calm down, Sam, I think I get it," Bobby said, feeling his way. "You're saying you think your senses have been super-powered."

Nerves strung tight, Sam gave a short nod.

Dean's eyes widened. "Whoa." He could see Sam watching him, waiting for him to explode over the latest proof of his little brother's freak status. He tried to dial down his reaction.

"You know, Sammy, that actually sounds pretty cool."

"Come on, Dean," Sam said, exasperated. "That's not what you really think."

Dean shrugged. "Okay, so it's also weird and disturbing. Doesn't stop it from being cool."

Ignoring the boys' sparring, Bobby puzzled over the ramifications of the situation. They watched him hopefully.

At last he said, "Sam, I think we should test your superpowers out, get some idea how far this goes."

Scanning the kitchen, he picked up a can of coffee from the counter, a bottle of syrup and, after a moment's thought, a bottle of vodka from the freezer.

He handed it all to Dean, who accepted it with a puzzled expression. "Bobby, I've had my coffee, and my pancakes. And, even for me, it's a little early for vodka."

"Are you up for a little hide and seek?" he asked Sam.

Sam nodded, understanding. "You bet."

"Okay. Dean, you go hide this stuff in the yard," Bobby ordered. "Spread it around. Doesn't matter where."

"Got it." Dean saluted smartly, trying to get into the spirit of things.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Don't make it too easy."

"You got it, little brother."

Fifteen minutes later, in the salvage yard, waiting at the first row of cars, Dean and Bobby watched as Sam moved unerringly toward a pile of tires about forty yards away.

When he reached the pile, he moved around it for a minute, jumped lightly over several, and then stuck his hand into a tire in the middle of the pile.

He came up with the can of coffee.

"Show-off," Dean muttered. "He probably saw me eyeballing the tires when we came out."

Bobby didn't answer.

He watched Sam changed directions, circle an old wood chipper and then angle past a green Honda to the remains of an old Ford supercab. He reached into the cab of the truck and pulled out the bottle of syrup.

"He's taking the exact route I did," Dean said incredulously. "Including the circle around the wood chipper."

The older man nodded without taking his eyes off Sam. "He's tracking your scent," he said in a low voice.

Sam crouched low to the ground, long black hair falling around his face. Then he rose and trotted back towards them.

Without pausing he passed them, going straight to the Impala, where he popped open the trunk and pulled out the bottle of vodka.

Shutting the trunk shut, he trotted back to them.

"I could smell you on that crappy little green Honda," he said to Dean. "You were going to hide the syrup there, but you changed your mind and put it in the Ford instead."

"Holy _crap_," Dean said, eyes wide.

"That's pretty damned impressive, Sam. But I don't think this is what scared you so bad yesterday. I think there was something more. Am I right?"

Sam stared at him, silently.

Bobby tried again. "When you said you could smell us yesterday . . . " he trailed off.

Sam's jaw tightened. "Yesterday, you two smelled like food," he said flatly.

Even though he had half expected this, Bobby's jaw dropped.

Dean fought back the fear curling in his belly. _I will not freak out I will not freak out I will not freak out_! "That's quite a conversation stopper, Sammy."

Confused, Sam stared at him.

Trying, above _all _else, to stay light, Dean grinned at him. "Thanks for not eating us, little brother."

That startled a laugh out of Sam. His big brother not cursing a blue streak, forecasting doom and dragging his evil butt to the panic room - it was a welcome surprise.

A wave of euphoria came over him. Tired as he was, freaked out as he was, he started to feel optimistic. Stronger. Maybe this bite didn't have to be the shitstorm they'd all been expecting.

"Guys, listen - I feel good. No, I feel great! Tired, yeah, 'cause I didn't sleep last night, but other than that, I'm fine! Maybe the enhanced senses is all that's going to happen. Maybe I'm not going to turn." He was practically vibrating with excitement.

"You didn't look like you felt too good earlier," Bobby pointed out.

"I was feeling a little shaky," Sam admitted. "But out here, in the open air - I feel better." He glanced sideways at Dean, hesitated, then plunged on. "I was thinking, maybe the demon blood is helping here."

He saw Dean's skeptical look, rushed on. "No, listen, remember in Oregon, the Croatoan virus, I was immune! Maybe this is the same kind of thing. Maybe the skinwalker venom got into me just enough to mess with my senses, but not enough to turn me."

"I don't know, Sam." Dean raised a questioning eyebrow at Bobby, who sighed with exasperation.

"_Why_ are you looking at me? Do I _look_ like I know what the crap is going on?"

"Nope. You look just as bat shit confused as I do."

Sam looked from one to the other. "Come on, guys. It could be! We don't know. It _could_ be," he insisted.

Dean nodded, trying to calm his brother. "Yeah, Sammy, it could be. And that would be great."

"Are you kidding? That would be fantastic!" High with relief, Sam laughed. "God, I'm starving. I think I could eat now."

It was a hard, wearing day. All of them were exhausted from the night before, but none of them could relax enough to sleep. Sam because his mood kept switching back and forth from exhaustion to manic excitement; Dean and Bobby, because they were afraid to leave him alone. They were hopeful about Sam's chances to avoid turning furry, but unwilling to relax their vigil.

Once darkness fell, exhaustion won out.

Sam had been unable to stay in the panic room again. Just the thought of being confined again for the night drove him into a near claustrophobic panic. Thinking privately that his brother was so exhausted that it was unlikely he would stir at all during the night, Dean settled Sam on the living room couch and set up a cot for himself a few feet away.

But for Sam, even as tired as he was, sleep was impossible. The euphoria from the morning was back and he trembled violently with the need to get out of the house, out from behind constricting walls, into the air, out into the open.

He managed to stay still long enough for Dean to fall asleep. Then, filled with a strange excitement, he rose noiselessly and left the house.

The sky was _filled _with stars.

Almost dizzy with the night's magic, Sam raised his arms to the sky, to the moon. He spun in ecstatic circles, letting the darkness, the night, the _power _claim him. It burned through his blood, its exhilaration almost too much to bear.

He wanted to shout, to scream with joy and freedom, but enough self-control remained, enough consciousness of the sleeping men inside the house, to keep him silent.

Needing to move, to feel, to _fly_, he broke into a run. Racing through the salvage yard, his eyes were wide with excitement, his mouth stretched in a wide, happy grin. Faster and faster he ran, the cold wind nipping his ears, blowing back his hair.

The night called. It _sang_ to him, songs of the earth, the sky, the dark caves. The thrill of the hunt, the blood of prey and the predators that rule the night.

With every step he felt stronger; with every leap as if he could touch the sky. _Nothing _could touch this freedom. No worry, no guilt, just the ecstasy of being, alive, strong, _himself_.

He came to a trio of stacked cars. Without hesitation, Sam leapt high, and _over _them. At the top of the metal pyramid, his hands slapped the hood of the top car and he twisted in mid-air, spun, landed lightly on the other side and continued his joyous run.

Another pyramid, another leap. On and on, each leap driving him faster.

Suddenly, in mid-leap, he caught a scent.

Man.

_Danger._

He aborted the leap, hit the ground in a crouch and flowed to the side of a car, flattening himself against it.

He tasted the air, listened, and looked to the east, the side of the salvage yard closest to the highway.

_There._

Sam's eyes narrowed. He focused all his senses.

Two men. Gun oil. Armed.

He knew their scent. The men from yesterday.

They reeked of murderous intent.

Sam put himself between the intruders and the house. He waited.

Their footsteps crashed in his ears, the stink of sweat and malice assaulted his nostrils, driving him to near madness.

Twenty feet from the house, they paused to re-check their weapons.

Sam's lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. He moved up behind them. Though he tried to hold it back, a soft growl escaped his throat.

Dazed with sleep, Dean sat up on the couch, grasping the revolver under his pillow. "Sam?"

Another shot, from outside. And then a scream.

"Oh, shit!" Revolver in hand, Dean stared wildly around the room, at the empty blankets on the couch. "Sammy?" He leaped off the cot and ran for the front door.

"Sam!"


	5. Chapter 5

Bobby burst out of the house, shotgun raised, looking around wildly.

"Dean! Damn it! Sam!"

Shouts rang out from inside the salvage yard. There was another shot, followed by a scream, which was abruptly cut off.

"Shit!" Barefoot and shirtless, Bobby followed the sounds of battle.

Sam grabbed Carl's rifle, clubbed Bill with it, swung it back around in the same continuing swift movement and felled Carl. Then, furious, he broke the gun over the nearby wood chipper; grabbed the second rifle and did the same.

Head bloody, cursing, Bill grabbed him from behind and Sam spun, wrenching free. Hands curled into claws, he grabbed the man's throat, and held on tight. Carl tried to pull him off of his partner, but Sam, holding tight with one hand to Bill, grabbed hold of Carl's throat with the other. He started squeezing.

"You are _not _going to hurt my family!" he snarled.

Lost in a red haze of rage, Sam's grip tightened. His vision narrowed - his enemies faces turning red, their throats under his fingers, the fear in their eyes - _their fear smelled good._

"Sam! Where are you? Sam!"

Dean's voice broke through the red haze surrounding him, brought him part of the way back to himself. Giving both men a violent shake, he threw them to the ground and then stalked after them.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Panicking, choking, Carl jumped up and ran, slammed into a car, fell, got up and ran again.

Sam let Carl go. Focused on Bill, he grabbed the helpless man by the hair and smashed a fist into his face. Blood sprayed as cartilage crumpled.

"Oh, crap! Sam, stop!" Dean ran forward, grabbed his brother. "Let him go!"

Dropping Bill, Sam turned on Dean, shoving him back, hard. He turned back to the man on the ground. The moonlight reflected on his eyes. Bill, bloody and torn, moaned in terror.

"Sam!" Up again, Dean moved in, gun ready. "Get off him! Now!"

Furious, Sam glared at him. "He was going to kill us. All of us! Not just me. You! And Bobby!"

Dean tried to stay calm, to see past the fiery rage to his brother. "I know, Sammy. But I can't let you kill him. Not like this."

Growling in frustration, Sam paced around the downed man. Swooping in, he grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him up off the ground effortlessly, bringing Bill's face close to his. The smell of fear coming off the man was both rank and sweet, driving Sam close to madness. His eyes flamed yellow and Bill's went wide with terror; his hands flailing helplessly.

Bobby came up to them, pushing Carl ahead of him with the shotgun. Both men stared in astonished fear as Sam held the helpless hunter a good two feet above the ground and shook him like a rat.

"You have a problem with me, you come to _me_," Sam hissed. "You hear me?"

Bill nodded jerkily.

"If you come _anywhere _near my family again, I will _tear _out your heart and eat it in front of you!"

With a final growl of frustrated rage, Sam threw Bill to the ground where he lay gasping for breath. He glared at his brother. "He's alive! Happy?"

Sam strode over to Carl, yanked him away from Bobby's protecting shotgun and threw him down on the ground next to Bill. Both men stayed on the ground, staring up at him, frozen.

"Starting the apocalypse was an accident, you assholes! I thought that killing that demon would keep Lucifer downstairs. I was wrong. And that's on me. _Me._ Not Dean. And not Bobby."

"This -" he motioned to his eyes - "wasn't my fault! We were hunting and I got bit. _Not - my - fault_!"

"Fault or not, you'll still turn," Bill rasped, glaring up at him, starting to feel braver with Dean and Bobby there. "You'll kill."

Sam took a step toward them and Bill shrank back.

Dean came forward, stood beside his brother. "If he does, I'll deal with it," he said coldly." You don't come near us again. Next time I see you, you're dead."

The two hunters managed to struggle to their feet.

"Bobby, we came for Sam," Carl said, throat raw. "Not you, or Dean."

"Did you think you could come on to my place, kill a boy that's like a son to me, and walk away clean?" Bobby said contemptuously. "Get off my property, Carl. And don't come back."

The three watched the two defeated hunters stumble away.

After a few minutes a truck started up on the nearby road and Sam relaxed, slightly, eyes starting to bleed slowly back to their normal warm hazel.

"I need some sleep," Bobby said morosely. "And a drink."

"They would have killed us," Sam said with certainty, "no matter what crap Carl was handing out. _All _of us."

"Bastards," Dean said, already regretting letting them go.

"Were you outside when they came back, Sam?" asked Bobby.

"I couldn't sleep." Remembering, Sam smiled inwardly. _Wait._ _What?_

"Oh man, Dean, I'm sorry I shoved you!"

"Yeah, well, next time I shove back, yellow eyes or not," Dean shot back.

"_Yellow_?"

"You didn't know?"

"How could I? I could feel they were different. And I knew something was up the way those guys were looking at me, but _yellow_?"

Dean backpedaled at Sam's horrified expression. "Sam, it's not like the demon. We think it's a skinwalker thing. So far, we've only seen it twice - in the last night in the panic room, and tonight."

"I'm thinking it's just something that happens when you're mad or upset," Bobby added reassuringly.

"Yellow eyes," Sam repeated. _Crap_. Exhaustion enveloped him. He swayed on his feet. Dean put out a steadying hand and he waved it away.

"I'm good." Sam laughed bitterly. "_Good_. Christ, what a freaking joke."

He started back toward the house, Dean and Bobby following, wearily.

Once inside, Bobby said, "Boys, we're gonna have to talk about tonight, but _not _tonight. I'm just too damned tired."

"Maybe I should keep watch, just in case they come back," Sam suggested.

"I don't think they'll be back, at least, not tonight," Dean said dryly. "I'm pretty sure Bill peed his pants."

They managed to sleep in until almost noon. When they got up, Bobby warmed up the dinner they'd hadn't eaten much of the day before and served it around.

Sam still didn't have much appetite, he moved the food around his plate nervously, trying to figure out how to bring up the subject of last night. And what would have to happen next.

The slightest of noises from outside alerted him and he stood hastily. "Guys!"

Understanding instantly, Dean leapt up from the table and grabbed his revolver, checking the cylinder.

Bobby picked up the shotgun from the counter. "Out front?"

Sam nodded, tense, hand resting on his gun.

Dean smiled, eyes hard. "Well, well. Maybe I'll get to kill something today after all." Moving quickly, he slipped quietly out the back door, circling around front to look for their uninvited guests.

Sam close behind him, Bobby opened the front door a crack and peered outside.

Carl stood about ten yards from the front door, hands raised. Dean was a few feet away from him, his gun trained on the intruder.

"I don't want any trouble, Bobby," he called. "Just want to talk."

"You boys go check the yard," Bobby said quietly to Sam. "Make sure he's alone."

Bobby walked slowly out to the hunter, shotgun steady, eyes cool. Once Sam and Dean were gone, Carl said, "I'm sorry about last night, Bobby."

"You're gonna have to do a damned sight better than that, old friend or not."

Carl nodded. "I know."

"And you were supposed to call before coming out here again. You're lucky I didn't shoot you outright."

They waited together, silently. When the boys trotted back, Dean nodding the all-clear, Carl studied Sam for a long minute, then shook his head wonderingly. This quiet young man - _this _was the same yellow-eyed horror who'd nearly killed them the night before?

"Well? Start talking," Bobby prodded.

"When Bill told me what Sam did," Carl finally began, "I almost lost my mind. I still can't quite get my head around it." He shook his head. "Lucifer. _Here_, on Earth. And _you _brought him." He looked at Sam, who stiffened, but didn't look away. "Killing you seemed like a damned good idea."

"Then, last night, when Sam said he thought he was keeping Satan downstairs when he killed that demon - it got a whole less clear. It started feeling like revenge. And revenge for something that was just damned bad luck - that didn't sit well. Hell, you boys are _hunters_, same as Bill, same as me. I should have realized you wouldn't have jumpstarted this shitstorm on purpose."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean snapped sarcastically. "Too bad you didn't wise up _before _you tried to kill us."

Carl looked directly at Dean, and then back at Sam. "_You're _not the ones who almost died last night."

Dean snorted. "You guys got off freaking light!"

There was a short silence.

"You know," Bobby said at last, "given how long we've known each other, you might've talked to me before you decided to come gunning for Sam."

Carl shook his head. "Hell, Bobby, everyone knows how you feel about these two. Like you said last night, they're kin. No matter what they do, apocalypse included, you'd never give them up."

"That aside, Sam's been bit and Bill was right about him turning someday. It could get bad. But the plain truth is, he could've killed us both last night. We couldn't have stopped him. He's too damn strong and fast. The fact he didn't, it says something."

"Says a hell of a lot, you ask me," Dean said.

"Yeah, well, our line of work, sometimes you jump fast or you die." Carl shrugged. "We screwed up."

"What about the other asshole?" Dean asked coldly.

"Bill's not so forgiving."

"Or smart," Bobby added sourly.

"He and I won't be hunting together any more," Carl said. "But I don't guess I'm giving away any secrets telling you that he'll be gunning for all of you. He doesn't take getting beaten real well."

"And another thing. He's spreading the word, so he won't be the only one looking for you." He looked at Sam. "When they come, they'll be coming with silver."

Carl shrugged. "That's it." He looked at Bobby, eyes careful. "We good?"

Bobby stared at him for a long minute, then nodded. "Yeah, we're good. But don't come back again without calling first. I mean it. My trigger finger's apt to be pretty itchy for a while."

After Carl left, the three trailed back into the kitchen to continue their interrupted breakfast.

After a few minutes, Dean pushed his plate away angrily. "We should've killed that prick last night."

Bobby and Sam didn't answer, knowing exactly what prick he was talking about.

Not having anywhere else to put his anger, Dean glared at them. "And don't tell me I'm the only one thinking that," he snapped. "We're going to be watching our backs for the rest of our freaking lives!"

His brother's anger agitating him, Sam tried to keep calm, looking to Bobby. "We didn't mean to bring all this crap down on you. We'll leave."

"There's no need for that, boy!" Bobby protested. "This is your home, same as it's always been!"

"They're going to be coming for me. You can't turn your home into an armed camp!"

"You idjit!" the older man said, exasperated. "It's already an armed camp! It's been an armed camp for the last frigging twenty years!"

"Yeah, but not usually against our own kind. Against our friends." Hazel eyes pained, he said to Dean. "They're going to be coming after you, too."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, face darkening.

"Don't you even think it, Sam! I can see it in your damned face! Don't you even _think_ about leaving without me!" He was shaking with rage. "I don't give a damn about them. It's you and me, together. You and me."

Sam fought back the emotion that were always so close to the surface these days, nodded.

Not satisfied, Dean grabbed his arm roughly.

"This is where you want to freaking listen to me, Sam. You don't go anywhere without me. You - Are - Not - Safe. Do you get that?

Sam flinched and lowered his eyes. _Not safe. _

The memory of last night's exhilaration warred with the very clear memory of his hands around his enemies' throats. He'd wanted to kill them. If Dean hadn't stopped him, he would have.

_I'm not safe to be around. Not even for you, Dean._

He met his brother's eyes. "I promise, Dean. I won't leave without you."

"I don't think we should leave at all!" Dean snapped.

"Am I supposed to hide here for the rest of my life?" Sam shook his head. "We're hunters. That's what we do."

"And what happens if we're out there and something happens?" Dean demanded.

"I deal with it." his brother said flatly. "_We_ deal with it."

"Hate to break it to you, Sam," Dean said angrily, "but the panic room isn't portable. This goes south, the only option I've got is a silver bullet."

"I know." Sam held Dean's gaze. "And I know it's not fair to ask that of you. But I'm asking."

Dean slammed his hand down on the table. "Damn it, Sam!" He lunged to his feet and slammed out the back door, wild with rage. "You son of a bitch!" he screamed to the sky. "Aren't you _ever_ going to stop fucking with us?"

After a few minutes, Sam came out and sat down on the back porch, watching his big brother.

"You know, brother," Dean said, trying not to yell, "this isn't the first time you've asked me to kill you."

Sam tried to smile. "And with my track record, it's probably not the last."

Dean shook his head despairingly, looked away.

"Dean, what the hell else can we do?" He looked at his brother sympathetically. "Crawl in a hole, wait for the world to end? _Lucifer's _out there. I'm pretty sure he hasn't forgotten us."

Dean dropped down on the porch beside him. "_Damn _it."

"Come on, man." Sam nudged him. "It's not really any more fucked up than the rest of our lives has been. Who knows, this whole super senses thing might come in handy."

"Yeah, right." Sighing, semi-resigned to the inevitable, Dean slung an arm around Sam.

"It's not always easy being your brother, Sam. But I've got your back."


	6. Chapter 6

Dean rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up.

"_Christ_, I hate camping."

Sam poured dirt over the campfire, then walked around the perimeter of their campsite kicking out the Anasazi protection symbols . "Yeah, me too." He looked around, making sure he hadn't missed anything.

Dean eyed him. It was cold, under freezing for sure, and his brother looked - _comfortable_. He wore a heavy coat and gloves, sure, but no hat, no clacking teeth, no shivering. Normally, he'd be bitching like crazy about having to be out in weather like this.

"Dude, what's up with you? Aren't you _cold_?"

"What?"

"Cold, aren't you cold?" Dean gestured at the bleak, mountainous landscape, the patches of snow on the ground, the occasional flurry coming down.

"Not really." Unconcerned, Sam shrugged. "Since it happened" - no need to specify what _it_ he was talking about - "I've been running hot."

"You're sick?" Dean's voice was edged with concern.

"No." Sam picked up his backpack and shrugged into it, saw his brother staring at him with worried eyes.

"Seriously, Dean, I'm good. I think the higher body temp is just, um, normal for me now."

"I'm not sure normal covers this, Sammy," Dean said flatly.

"Whatever. Look, I may not be freezing my ass off like you, but I still want to get the hell off this damned mountain, so let's get moving."

"Yeah, no shit." More than happy, for now, to drop the whole running hot issue, Dean pulled out the map they'd gotten at one of the ranger stations and studied it, lips pursed.

"If this bastard keeps going the way it's going now, it'll take him away from casual hikers, which is good. _But_, it'll also take him further up the mountain. That's bad. The higher up we go, the colder it's gonna get. And this time of year, that's pretty freaking cold."

"He's not gonna do that," Sam said with certainty. "This thing still needs to feed. There's no people up there, so no food. More than likely he's going to twist around, fall back to Cold Creek."

"So why is he still moving up? The sign's been pretty clear."

"I'm thinking it knows we're tracking it. You remember the last time a Wendigo left us this much sign?" Sam asked.

Dean flashed back to Blackwater Ridge, Colorado - three terrified civilians, an unbelievably fast nightmare clutching him by the throat, and the satisfactory memory of a twisted creature being devoured by flames. "So it's a trap."

"Oh, _hell _yes."

"Good."

Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean grinned.

"That means we're probably not going to have to chase this bastard all the way to the top of this freaking mountain." He laughed. "Las Vegas, here we come!"

Bobby opened his front door to Sheriff Jody Mills.

They had a history, of the supernatural variety, which they rarely spoke of. She liked to pretend that it had never happened, that the world she lived in was one of easily quantifiable happenings.

She didn't like to be reminded that her young son had died, been brought back to life by unknown forces, and that said son had then murdered her husband - his own father.

Bobby could see her point, especially since that whole damned fiasco had ended in him having to kill his own wife for the second goddamned time.

"Bobby." The Sheriff greeted him with a friendly, if somewhat reserved, smile.

"Sheriff." He invited her in and she shook her head.

"Thanks, no. I can't stay. Listen, Bobby, we found a body about a half mile off your property, over near the highway. Looks like he was killed about two days ago. Shot. Yours is the closest house to where we found him. Wanted to know if you heard anything. Some time Monday, that would be."

"Not unusual to hear gunshots around here, but I don't remember hearing anything," Bobby answered. "He got any i.d. on him?"

She shook her head. "No wallet. No car. Looks like he was in his fifties. Dark hair, about six feet. Jeans and jacket. His face was marked up; looked like he'd been in a fight not too long before he was shot."

A very nasty suspicion stirred. "Any tattoos?"

Jody cocked her head at him, alert to something in his voice. "USMC, on his right forearm."

Bobby sighed inwardly. "Crap. You got a picture of him?"

"Uh uh. Think you might know him?"

"Friend of mine was here a couple days ago. Saw him last on Monday morning. Fits the general description."

Jody sighed. "Well, hell, Bobby, I'm sorry. I hope it's not him. Can you come down to the morgue and take a look?"

"Crap." Bobby blew out a deep breath, rubbed his hand over his face. _Freaking Bill._

"Yeah. I'll follow you in."

The hiker's camp was destroyed. Pup tent slashed and hanging open; campfire kicked over - the contents of a backpack, a lost life, scattered around the clearing. There was a lot of blood.

There was no need for conversation; the Winchesters had done this too many times before. The two brothers, weapons ready, searched the camp for sign - not signs of life, that wasn't going to happen. But sign that might lead them to their quarry.

Twenty yards outside the camp Sam found the beginnings of a trail, blood and shreds of clothing inside a copse of desiccated pine trees. A low hiss brought Dean to him and they circled the copse and the area just beyond. Further on, a second spattering of blood and flesh.

Stepping softly, quietly, the two hunters followed the trail - blood dotting the ground, or splashed against a boulder or tree, every twenty feet or so

There was a faint rustling off the trail. Swinging swiftly in that direction, they saw a lizard scuttling away. Nothing else moved.

As they moved forward, the smell of blood filled Sam's nostrils and the coppery tang of death clung to the back of his throat.

Sam reached out, touched his older brother's shoulder. "_It's close_."

Nodding, Dean motioned toward a large boulder off the side of the trail. There was a long smear of blood on the side; it looked like something had been dragged up the side of the boulder and over the top.

Dean, flamethrower ready, moved toward the boulder, his brother close behind him, flare pistol in hand.

Sam could smell the Wendigo. It smelled of old blood and rotting flesh, raising the hackles on the back of his neck. His eyes sparked.

Dean glanced at him, froze.

"Sam!" he hissed. "You okay?"

Sam put his finger to his lips, nodding his head. He pointed to himself and to the top of the boulder. He pointed to his brother and then down the trail.

Dean gave a short nod and, turning his attention back to the trail, continued on.

With a few lithe leaps, Sam was soon crouched on top of the boulder, senses wide open. His body quivered with excitement.

He could see everything, knew everything_, was _everything _- _the chipmunk chattering nervously in a nearby tree, the hawk circling high overhead - every inch of him connecting incontrovertibly to this wild, free place.

For just a moment, the mission was forgotten.

Civilization, forgotten. His other self, and Dean, forgotten.

A frigid wind from the peaks above blew his hair back from his face - alive, alive, _alive_.

The sound of Dean's footsteps on the trail below.

Focus.

Wendigo. Blood trail.

_Hunt._

Sam's eyes were a brilliant, fevered yellow. Collecting sensory information not just with his nose, but with the receptors in his mouth as well, he followed the blood across the top of the large boulders. Human blood. Just a few hours old.

The trail got heavier the farther he went - the monster must have been dragging the corpse to leave this much spoor; the smell of blood was so strong he could have followed it with his eyes closed.

The trail ended in a small depression between two large rocks, the space just large enough for the corpse shoved inside it. Bloody scraps, broken down into the most basic components of flesh, blood and bone; there was little left to show it had once been human.

Why had the body been left? Why hadn't the Wendigo eaten it? Or taken it to its lair? Where was the thing?

A cold feeling started in his stomach as Sam remembered what they'd talked about this morning.

_This _was the trap. The Wendigo had _drawn _him up here, separating him from his brother.

_Dean._

Dean might not have his brother's super senses, but he'd been a hunter for too many years not to sense when death was near. He spun in a slow circle, flame thrower ready.

A harsh guttural cry came from somewhere behind him and his gut tightened in reflex; he swung in that direction, finger on the trigger. Then, a scrabbling noise just behind him - knowing he was too late, _way _too late, he started to spin back.

Sam almost didn't make it.

Moving fast, almost as fast as the creature they were hunting, Sam saw, as he crested the top of the rocks, the Wendigo appear suddenly behind his brother. Dean started to turn and Sam launched himself off the top of the rock, landing on top of the monster, knocking his brother back several feet, where he hit the ground, hard.

Breath knocked out of him, Dean lay gasping for air. He was aware of a roaring mass of noise and confusion a few feet away from him and he staggered up, trying to breathe, still holding tight to the flamethrower.

The Wendigo roared with anger and raked its jagged claws over Sam's back, ripping through his jacket, trying to get a grip on flesh through cloth. The hunter knew he had to make it quick. The thing was too strong, too damned fast.

Before it could fasten on him, Sam tightened his grip on its neck and swung it in a short crunching arc against the rocks.

As the whirling madness that was his brother and the Wendigo came to an abrupt halt in the clearing, Dean's lungs finally kicked in.

He pulled in a ragged breath. "Shit!"

Sam leapt out of the way. "Dean! Now!"

Dean raised the flamethrower and fired at the monster where it lay stunned on the ground against the rocks. Flames bellowed out, covered it, devoured it. Death screams reverberated to the sky.

Even when the creature lay still, charred and undoubtedly dead, Dean kept the flames on it.

"You okay, Sam?" he shouted back over his shoulder.

There was no answer for a long moment.

"Sam!"

Sam shuffled up beside him. "I'm good, Dean. Finish it." His voice was harsh and muffled, his face turned away from his brother.

Dean nodded shortly, focused back on the Wendigo, letting his brother collect himself.

The flamethrower fizzled out after another minute or two. Dean pulled out a can of accelerant from his coat pocket, soaked the last of the remains and set it alight.

Sam handed a bottle of water to Dean, who nodded his thanks. He drank it thirstily as they watched the flames finish their job.

"You okay?" Sam asked quietly, his eyes back to their normal color, and flame-free.

"Yeah." Dean twisted his shoulders and neck, heard a few little pops as he relieved the tension. "What the hell, Sam?"

"I couldn't shoot. He was too close to you."

"Huh. Then I guess I'll forgive you for almost breaking my damned neck." He turned his brother toward him, ran his hands over his head and neck, checking for damage. When he saw the huge tears in the back of Sam's jacket, he gasped and pulled the jacket off, searching for wounds.

"Jesus, Sam, there's not a mark on you."

"I got hold of him before he knew I was there. He couldn't break my grip." Sam shrugged. "I knew if I let go, he'd either run or kill us both. So - I didn't. I knew you'd be ready with the fire when I tossed him."

"Well, I guess we have to thank that freaking skinwalker blood for this one, then," Dean said. "Pretty sure you couldn't have held onto him without that."

"Probably not," Sam agreed wryly.

Dean grinned with satisfaction. "Now, you see, little brother, _this _is why I _love _Wendigos. Simple. Just pure, freaking evil. Kill 'em quick and get the hell out."

Sam smiled at his happy, happy big brother. "Vegas?"

"Vegas!"


	7. Chapter 7

"Las Vegas is sort of like how God would do it if he had money."

Steve Wynn

"Hit me."

"You have seventeen, sir," the dealer reminded Dean, smiling flirtatiously. Crystal didn't care if the guy _was _cleaning her clock. He was just _too_ damned sexy!

Dean grinned at her. "My dad taught me how to _count _with a deck of cards, honey." His green eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Hit me."

The dealer laid out another card. Four of clubs.

She looked up at him, smiling. "Twenty-one."

Dean hooted with laughter.

Picturing him in her bed, Crystal dealt herself a King. "Twenty-three. The gentleman wins again."

"Told you so." Dean grinned drunkenly at Sam. "You're my good luck, little brother."

Sam yawned. "If that's true, you are totally screwed."

"Sammy, we walked in here tonight with less than fifty dollars," Dean said solemnly. "We now have just under three thousand!" He clapped his brother on the back. "That's called _good luck_, ya freaking moose!"

"Any chance we can take that good luck upstairs and hit the sack?" Sam asked hopefully.

"No hope at all," Dean answered, laughing. Scooping his winnings off the table, he tossed a couple of hundred dollar chips across the table to Crystal as a good-bye, and the two brothers walked across to the cashier's cage.

"However, there's an _excellent_ chance of you and me hitting that strip club I saw down the street." He shoved his chips across the counter to the cashier.

"I'm surprised we even made it in to the casino," Sam said. "Why didn't we just stop at the club instead?"

Dean shook his head. "Sammy, Sammy - have I taught you nothing? How many girls could we make happy with just fifty bucks?" He took his winnings from the cashier and fanned the money out in a big green circle.

"Just _think _how many girls we can make happy with _this_."

Sam laughed, glad to see his brother so - well, _happy_. "Dean, man, you are drunk on your _ass_."

"This is true," Dean beamed. "But not too drunk to enjoy beautiful women taking their clothes off. I have _never_ been that drunk. Let's go!"

When Dean's cell rang at about 6:00 in the morning, Sam grabbed it up off the bedside table before it could wake his brother. "Hello?"

"That you, Sam?"

"Hang on, Bobby," he whispered. He padded to the bathroom, clad only in a pair of worn sweat pants, shutting the door behind him so he wouldn't wake Dean.

Leaning against the bathroom sink, blinking against the room's harsh fluorescents, Sam yawned. "Hey, Bobby, what's up?"

"How you doing?"

"I'm great. I was up most of the night watching Dean stuff g-strings."

"Vegas?"

"Vegas," Sam confirmed.

Bobby chuckled, but there was about a ton of subtext underneath it. "What's going on, Bobby?" Sam asked warily.

A long sigh over the line. "Carl's dead. They found him out by the highway, close to my place. Shot."

Hazel eyes narrowed. "Bill."

"Bill."

"Son of a _bitch_."

"Just about what I said."

"Did you tell the sheriff he did it?"

"No."

"Do you want us to come back?"

Bobby smiled to himself. That's a Winchester for you. Never hesitate to put yourself between a friend and a bullet.

"No need. That asshole won't come back here again. Carl was just his little good-bye present. I expect he's out looking for you now."

Sam's head was starting to ache, and from more than just last night's whiskey. "_Shit_."

Okay. Enough time spent on freaking Bill, Bobby decided.

"You two take care of that Wendigo?"

"Yeah, no problem." Sam took a bottle of Advil from the medicine cabinet, tossed back three of them and swallowed them dry. "We're pulling out this morning. Heading out to San Diego. A haunting."

"How are you doing, physically?"

"You mean, do I feel like I'm going to turn furry?" Sam asked sardonically. "No, I'm good." He looked at the bottle of Advil and tried to decide if he should take some more. _Give the first three a chance to work first, dummy. _

"Sam -" Bobby tried to think how to say it diplomatically, then decided screw it, just say it. "I don't mean to keep on your ass about this, but I want you to be sure and tell your brother if something feels wrong. That way you two can figure it out together."

Head pounding now, wanting Bobby to just freaking _drop _it, Sam said, keeping his voice even, "I will. Listen, don't worry about us, just watch _your _ass. And call if you need us."

"The only reason that bastard got the drop on Carl is he didn't know how much of a whack job Bill really is. I do." Bobby's voice hardened. "He shows his face within ten miles of my place again, I'll know it. Either way, he's dead, once I catch up to him."

_Or once Bill catches up to us_, Sam promised himself silently.

"Okay, Bobby." He opened the bathroom door, looked out at his slumbering brother. "Listen, I'm gonna go wake up Sleeping Beauty. Want to be sure we have time to clean up and get some breakfast before we leave town."

"Do any gambling?"

"Dean cleaned up at blackjack. Took 'em for almost three thousand."

"You leaving Vegas with any of that?"

Remembering last night's breast fest, Sam laughed. "He only dropped about $500 on the strippers, so we're still ahead."

When he _finally _got off the phone, Sam leaned back against the bathroom counter, rubbing his face with his hands, head throbbing viciously.

_Christ_, he was tired.

He hadn't slept at all last night; had lain in bed for hours, thinking about the mountain - the snow on the ground, the brilliant blue sky - the air that made him feel so wonderfully _alive_.

He wanted to go back there, now. He wanted to stand in the middle of its wonderful emptiness and drink in the sounds, the smells; he wanted to run in that wildness until his heart exploded, to outrun the hell of his past and the terror of his future. He wanted to forget all of his disastrous screw-ups, the people he'd left behind - God, please, he wanted to forget the dead.

To live in the perfect space between now and the next second.

No guilt, no recriminations - no him.

Sam swayed and grabbed hold of the sink. He turned on the faucet, waited until it ran icy cold and then splashed it into his face.

When he raised his head and looked into the mirror, his eyes were still his own.

"I'm really tired of you," Sam said to his reflection.

He straightened up, steeled himself. "Just suck it up," he said coldly. "It's not like you don't deserve it."

"Sammy?" A sleepy voice from the other room.

"Yeah."

With a last hostile look in the mirror, Sam went back into the bedroom. "How's your head? You drank enough whiskey last night to put _three _men under."

"Three _normal_ men, maybe." Dean grinned lazily, eyes still half-closed. "You been up long?"

Evading the casual question, Sam said, "Bobby called."

"Oh, yeah?" Luxuriating in the feel of the wonderfully soft mattress and clean sheets, and the knowledge that he still had a couple thousand dollars in his pants pocket, Dean stretched, almost purring with well-being. "Everything okay?"

"No."

At Sam's flat reply, Dean raised himself up on his elbows, frowning

"Shit. What?"

"Carl's dead."

Dean let out a harsh breath.

"Bobby thinks it was Bill."

"No kidding." Dean rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. "Does he need us to come back?"

"No. He says he's got it." Sam hesitated, shrugged. "He's pretty sure Bill's out hunting me."

"_Knew _we should have killed that fucker." Dean collapsed back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "_Damn_. I was feeling so good a minute ago."

"Yeah. Listen, why don't you go take a shower? I'll order breakfast. We can at least eat before we head out."

"Good idea." Kicking off the covers, Dean rose. "You sleep okay? No fever, nausea, or any other life-altering problems to report?"

Sam picked up the hotel phone and punched in the number for room service.

"You mean am I going to change into something furry and rip your throat out while you're naked in the shower?"

"Yeah, that."

"No, I'm good."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, okay, a little headache, but no big deal. I took some Advil." He turned away from Dean's searching eyes. "Yeah, room service?"

Four eggs, two short stacks, ten strips of bacon and four cups of coffee later, the brothers were on Highway 15, headed for San Diego. Soon after, Sam was fast asleep, his head pressed against the passenger window, dark hair falling down across his face.

Once he was sure his brother was under, Dean turned the tape deck down to a dull roar, knowing that to turn it off completely would wake Sam up quicker than the loud music.

He hadn't missed the fact that ever since they'd left Bobby's, Sam wasn't getting much, if any, sleep. These days, Sam was _always _up in the morning before Dean. And if Dean woke at night, Sam was either researching on his laptop, or lying in bed, pretending to be asleep.

Dean knew Sam. He _knew _the difference between Sleeping Sam and Pretending to Be Sleeping Sam.

He'd have to take a hand if things didn't change soon. Kid couldn't just sleep in the car between jobs.

He'd pick something up over the counter to knock his little brother out at night, if he had to. And if that didn't work, he'd find something stronger on the street.

I can always dope his latte, he snickered half-heartedly to himself

Talking might help vent _some _of what was eating his brother up. Sam had always been one to talk about what was bugging him and right now, he had enough guilt, anguish and remorse in his soul to _kill _any normal person.

A demon blood addiction, taking a demon lover, releasing Lucifer from hell - and then finding out that Lucifer wanted to claim him as his _vessel_; wanted to use _Sam_ to destroy the Earth?

All that and the skinwalker bullshit on _top_ of that?

It was a miracle his brother wasn't _completely _crazy, instead of just halfway.

The trouble was, Sam wasn't talking. And Dean had no idea how to get him started.

He drove on, chewing it over.

Beside him, Sam stirred uneasily.

He was _happy_.

He lay on the ground in the middle of a large clearing full of the scent and taste and feel of grass and flowers all around him. It was hot, deliciously so, and he stretched his legs contentedly.

He rubbed his head in the grass, chuffing, blew a few stray blades playfully into the air; rolled heavily over onto his back, limbs splayed, belly to the sun.

"Sam? What _have _you been up to?"

With a roar, Sam twisted over, leapt to his feet and faced the intruder, crouching, tail lashing back and forth, fangs bared.

Lucifer laughed with delight. "Sam, I had no idea!" He strolled forward, ignoring the cat's guttural growl.

"Dear one, would you mind saying yes _now_? I know, I know, you'd rather die, blah blah blah, but we both know it'll happen sooner or later, and I would _so _much love to share this with you!"

Claws digging into the earth, Sam screamed in defiance as the not-man stepped closer. He readied himself for a futile leap.

Lucifer reached for his head.

"No! _No_!" Panicked, Sam roared out of sleep, thrashing wildly as he tried to escape. "Get out of my _head_!"

"Shit!" Dean hung on to the steering wheel, trying to control the Impala, which was suddenly much too small for both him and his violently struggling brother.

"Sam, wake up!" Dean reached out, grabbed Sam's shoulder. At the touch, Sam pulled away and fell heavily back against the passenger door, which popped open.

Flailing, Sam managed to grab hold of the car with one hand, but his grip slipped and he started to fall back, eyes finally starting to wake up, stretched wide with panic and surprise.

"Dean!"

Cursing, Dean hit the brakes and pulled the Impala roughly over to the side of the road. Going too fast to stop immediately, the car slid over the shoulder of the road, skimmed over a small ditch and skidded hard over the dry desert floor, before finally coming to a teeth-rattling halt.


	8. Chapter 8

How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!

Isaiah 14: 12

The desert sun, merciless even in winter, seared down on the two brothers and the beached Impala.

"_Sam!" _

Frantic, Dean knelt down beside his brother's prostrate body, laid out several feet from the car where he'd slammed into the ground. Gentle fingers combed through dark hair. "Sam?"

He sighed with relief when Sam's eyes flickered open and looked numbly up at him. "What - " He tried to sit up, but sank back with a gasp of pain.

"What is it?"

Sam grimaced. "Ribs."

"Hold still." Dean ran his hands up underneath Sam's shirt, probed expertly. "I don't think anything's broken." He put an arm around his brother's shoulder. "Let's get you up."

Moving slowly, he eased Sam into a sitting position, then carefully hauled him to his feet.

"What the hell happened?" Sam asked, confused, looking around.

"You tell me, man," Dean said. "One minute you're sleeping, the next minute you're screaming your guts out and we're off the freaking road." He glanced over at the Impala. "Lucky for you, my baby's okay, or I'd be kicking your ass right now."

Sam looked at the car, then at the highway. He clearly had no idea how they'd gotten out here.

"Must have been one hell of a nightmare," Dean said questioningly.

"Nightmare?" Sam asked, frowning. "Night -" The memory of his dream suddenly fell in on him and he staggered against Dean, sending them both stumbling back against the car.

"Damn it!" Dean grabbed Sam as he started to slide down the side of the car. "Sammy, don't you do it!" He shook him. "Sam!"

Trembling violently, fighting to stay focused, Sam grabbed hold of Dean and tried to steady himself. Dizziness swamped him and he lost all color, going limp in his brother's arms.

"Crap!" Swinging Sam around, Dean shoved him down into the passenger seat of the Impala. Then he grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler in the back seat, splashed some on Sam's face, and made him take a few sips.

"Sorry. _Sorry_." Trembling, Sam pushed his hair back from his face, tried to calm himself. "_Christ!"_

"Damn it, kid, what the hell's _wrong_?"

"Dean," Sam whispered. "Dean, it was _him_."

"Take it easy, Sam." His own hands shaking a little, Dean poured a little more water into the palm of his hand, smoothed it over his brother's pallid face. "Who?"

Half afraid that naming him would make the Beast appear, Sam hesitated, finally whispered, "_Lucifer."_

Dean went almost as pale as Sam. After taking a second to digest the news, he patted his brother's arm reassuringly, trying to calm Sam's obvious terror. "What did he want?"

"What he always wants," Sam said softly, despairingly. "_Me_."

"What? _Always?_ He's come to you before? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

Sam looked away from his brother. A drop of moisture ran down his face; he wasn't sure if it was water, or a tear. He wiped it away.

"I did tell you," he said quietly.

Dean stared at him blankly. "When - oh."

Of course. When Sam had called and asked to come back.

When Dean had said no. No, I don't want you.

"I didn't know he was still coming to you," Dean said apologetically.

Sam shrugged. "This is the first time since -" he gestured wearily to his scarred arm. "When he found me, I was dreaming. I had - changed. Shifted. He liked it. He wanted to - _play_."

A wave of nausea rolled over him; he fought it back bitterly. "I'm sorry. He's just - he's just so -" Sam stopped, unable to convey just how much the fallen angel frightened him.

"Don't worry about it." Dean squeezed his arm, asked gently, "You okay to get back on the road?"

Hands clenched together, Sam nodded mutely.

Dean got into the driver's seat, started the car and listened to the engine for a minute. She sounded good so he maneuvered her back onto the highway.

They sat for a minute on the side of the road, Sam staring straight ahead into the middle distance.

Uneasy, Dean asked, "What are you thinking?"

Sam was too tired, too freaked out, to dissemble. "That it wouldn't do any good to kill myself."

Dean flinched.

"He'd just bring me back," Sam went on. "He'd just - bring me back. But -" he stopped, hesitated. "I was wondering, what if I could shift - if I stayed shifted. Don't you think he'd give up after a while, move on to someone else?"

"Jesus, Sam!" Dean was horrified. "Do you really want to spend your whole life as an animal? We'd have to keep you in a cage. What the hell kind of life is that?"

Sam looked out the window at the desert, at the mountains in the distance. His heart, his soul, ached.

Dean saw the longing on his brother's face. "Sam . . ." he said helplessly.

Sam turned to face him. Defenses down, eyes unveiled, hiding nothing. For the first time, Dean saw the truth of the hell his brother lived in.

The pain was so stark, so bleak, so all encompassing that Dean could not - simply could _not_ - continue to look.

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, that was going to make this any better. There was nothing he could do to help his brother.

He turned away and sent the Impala roaring down the highway.

Drifting.

White clouds in a wide blue sky. A basketball in the middle of the ocean. One needle in a forest of needles. Jessica's smile . . .

Arms full of take-out food, Dean fumbled open the door of their motel room and turned on the light, saw Sam blinking at him from one of the beds.

"Oh man, sorry about that."

Sam yawned. "It's okay. Wasn't sleeping. Just resting." Scrubbing a hand wearily over his face, he got out of bed. "Salad?"

Dean sighed. "No, Francine. The salad fairies got there before me, and cleaned them out! Dude - of course they had salad - it's _California_!"

It was a good salad but Sam had zip appetite. After a few bites, he pushed it away. He opened his laptop and pulled up his notes on their current case.

"So I found out what's going on. Thanksgiving in 1892 a woman named Kate Morgan checked into room 312 of the Hotel Del Coronado. She stayed five nights and on the sixth morning they found her body on the stairs leading down to the beach. She was shot with a .44. Suicide was the verdict."

"Big gun for a woman," Dean commented, taking another bite of his cheeseburger.

"It says she left her husband and was living with some other guy who was supposedly cheating on her. She was waiting for him to come and when he didn't -" Sam shrugged.

"Anything else?"

"Um, yeah, she was pregnant."

"Ouch." Dean finished off his burger, started on the fries. "We sure she offed herself?"

"That's what the coroner said. Somebody tried to get the case reopened a few years later. There was a rumor that the bullet found in her body wasn't the same caliber as the gun they found with her."

"Huh. So we've got either a suicide or a murder haunting."

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "So anyway, last week, Bruce Cannon, married with three kids, checks into room 3327, which used to be room 312, which was Kate Morgan's room. He's with a woman, but _not_ his wife. Halfway through the night they get into a screaming match and he splits. Next morning they find the girlfriend hanging in the bathroom, and Cannon in the parking lot, shot."

"What makes this _our _business?"

"The guy had a hole in his chest that looked like it could have come from a .44 round. But there was no bullet found in his body, and no exit wound."

Dean whistled. "Kinky!"

"Tell me about it. It's a little weird. Kate Morgan's been haunting the hotel for more than a century. They've even got her in their freaking brochures. No big deal, nothing unusual - her walking through the hotel, looking out the window of her old room, bad vibes in certain parts of the hotel. Then all of a sudden, she goes postal and offs somebody."

"You're thinking Cannon killed his girlfriend and that's what set her off?"

"Could be. Or, if Kate killed herself, it could be that the girlfriend killing herself was the trigger. Also -" Sam shook his head - "Cannon's girlfriend was pregnant. People who heard them fighting said he wasn't too happy about it."

"Douche bag."

"Whatever happened, it woke Kate up. I think she followed him down to the car and -" Sam pointed an index finger at Dean, mimed firing.

"Pretty creative for a hundred year old ghost."

"I'm sure she's spent most of that century being pretty pissed off," Sam said. "Since Cannon and his girlfriend died, she's been showing up all over the hotel. Full manifestations - in the lobby, on the stairs where she died, in the dining room. She's even appearing in people's rooms, scaring the crap out of them. Hotel's going nuts."

"Do we know where she's buried?"

Sam flipped through his notes. "Mount Hope Cemetery. Division 5. Section 1."

"We won't even be breaking a sweat on this one," Dean grumbled.

"Well . . . Maybe." Sam looked at his notes, frowning.

"What?"

"There was another suicide, within the same two year time frame. Another woman, the mistress of the guy who owned the hotel. She was pregnant, too. She killed herself, but the body disappeared; probably the hotel owner trying to avoid a scandal."

"Crap." Dean scowled. "Well, let's hope it turns out to be the Morgan chick, 'cause I don't know how the hell we're supposed to find a body that disappeared more than a hundred years ago."

"No kidding." Sam covered a yawn. "Okay, so, tonight. Good. We should be on the road outta here by midnight."

Dean eyed him. "Listen, I know you're not much into the miracles of modern pharmacology, but we got about twelve hours before we can head over there, and -" he pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket, shook it - "you could use some sleep."

Sam shook his head decisively. "No, thanks."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm fine, Dean."

"You haven't had more than five or six hours sleep for the last four days," Dean said sarcastically. "On what planet is that _fine_?"

Scowling, Sam rose abruptly. "Just leave it, will you?"

Dean laughed jeeringly. "Yeah, _right_. Tell me why and I will. Maybe."

"You're a real pain in the ass, Dean!"

"So you've said. Many, _many_ times. And?"

Sam turned away from him and started to stuff his belongings into his duffel. "Let's just get this done and get the hell out of here, okay?"

"_Sam_."

Furious, Sam turned on him. "Because I don't want to get stuck in my head, okay? If _he_ comes, I want to be able to wake up. I don't want to be trapped in here, listening to his _shit _and not be able to get away from him, _okay_?"

"Ah." Dean grimaced. "Got it."

Not mollified in the least, Sam snapped at him. "And I'd like not to have to talk about this every goddamned minute of every goddamned day!" His voice rose to a near-shout.

Dean waited a beat.

"You done?"

There was a _lot_ more Sam wanted to say; most of it on the subject of overbearing older brothers, but he managed to rein himself in.

"I get it," Dean said. Sam drew in an impatient breath and Dean raised a hand to forestall another outburst. "As much as I am able to get what it's like, I do." He rolled his eyes. "God, you're such a freaking drama queen!"

Despite himself, Sam laughed. "Bastard."

Grinning, happy to have gotten a genuine laugh out of his brother, Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Okay, Princess. Since sleep is out, what the hell are we supposed to do for the next twelve hours?"


	9. Chapter 9

The person who is bent on killing you

will follow you wherever you are.

Edward Koch

Dean smirked. "Our spooks aren't usually so easy to find." He looked down at the grave's marker.

Kate Morgan

Also known as

Lottie A. Bernard

Died Nov. 29, 1892

At aged 24 years

Sam shone his flashlight silently over the dead grass covering the grave and the wormwood flowers curling around the marker, both indicators of an unquiet spirit.

Dean grinned, teeth flashing in the dark. "Guess this is our girl."

"Yeah." Sam stared down at the grave for a moment, then pulled the collapsible shovel out of his bag. "Keep her off me if she shows." He dug the blade of the shovel into the grass.

"You got it." Shotgun and salt loads ready, Dean kept watch. After a few minutes, bored, he ventured. "You know, Dad was stationed here for a while when he was in the Marines, out at Camp Pendleton."

"Yeah, I know." Thrust, toss. Thrust, toss. Sam got an easy rhythm going. Pretty quickly, he was a few feet down into the grave.

Dean walked a slow circle around his brother, keeping an eye on the moonlit shadows. "Dad loved it. Used to talk about the San Diego Zoo." He laughed. "Said they had an elephant ride, and a camel ride. And that 'Wild Kingdom' guy - you remember that show we used to watch when we were kids? Dad met him once. He was head of the zoo, or something."

"Marlon Perkins? That's pretty cool."

"Yeah." He looked up at the sky. Clouds were starting to gather. "Come on, Sam, let's move it. Looks like it's gonna rain."

"You want to change places?" As soon as he'd spoken, Sam's shovel struck the coffin with a dull, echoing thud. "Here it is." He scraped away the last of the dirt, smashed open the coffin and looked down at the skeletal remains. "We've got her, Dean."

He leapt out of the hole in one flowing movement, crouched down next to his duffel and pulled out the kerosene and matches.

"Good." Dean kept scanning the surrounding area. "Let's burn the bitch and get the hell out of here."

"I'll do it. Just keep your eyes open. I don't want to get shot today." He doused the bones in kerosene. Lit a match.

"Uh - Sam?"

Sam looked up.

The ghost of a young, dark-haired woman stood between the brothers. Dressed in a long, dark gown, her hair was down around her shoulders; blood and matted hair surrounded an ugly hole in the side of her head. Sad, dark eyes stared at them accusingly.

In her hand, she held the spectre of a gun, trained squarely on Dean.

Dean held his ground but his voice was strained. "Sam, you going to light her up, or what?"

Sam tossed the match into the grave. Both remains and ghost blazed up with a gratifying whooossshhh! "Jerk. Why the hell didn't you just _shoot_ her?" he demanded, irritated.

"Because, _bitch,_ youwere in the way," Dean crabbed back at him.

"Rock salt," Sam said scornfully. "Like neither of us has been shot with _that_ before!"

They grinned at each other.

Sam bent over to pick up the shovel. Wind rustling through the nearby palm trees brought a scent to him and as he rose swiftly, he felt the whiz of a bullet as it flew past his head and the heavy _thwack!_ as it hit a nearby palm tree.

"Shit!" Dean dropped the shotgun and pulled out a handgun, ducking behind that same palm.

As Sam lunged for the shelter of a nearby tombstone, another shot rang out and a bullet creased his shoulder, sending him spinning around and nearly toppling into the open grave. Cursing, he pulled his gun out, throwing himself to the ground behind the stone.

"Sam!" Dean hissed frantically. "You okay?"

"_Shhh_." Ignoring his shoulder, Sam listened to the encircling darkness. He could hear them out there now, two or three of them, moving to surround them. Hunters, had to be.

_Bill_. Sam's lip curled and a growl escaped him. How the hell had these bastards gotten so close without him hearing them?

A flurry of shots exploded against the tombstone he was sheltering behind and he flattened himself against the ground.

Beneath the sporadic shots, he could hear Dean circling around through the sparse palms and cacti, looking for whoever was keeping him pinned down.

Screw _that_. He wasn't letting his brother get hurt. This was _his_ fault, _his_ fight. He left the cover of the tombstone and ran flat out toward the muzzle flashes.

Another hit, this time to his right thigh. Sam stumbled, fell and then rolled back to his feet.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean started to charge toward his brother but a shadow stepped out from behind a nearby tree and dusted his head with the butt of a revolver. Stunned, Dean fell to his knees and Bill grabbed him by the hair, holding the muzzle of the gun to his head.

Sam was ten feet away. Too far away to do more than watch as Bill killed his brother, if that's what he wanted to do.

Bill cocked his gun and a shudder ran over Sam. "_Don't_."

The hunter smirked. "Don't really think you're in a position to be giving orders, shifter."

Sam could hear the others coming closer through the trees. He needed them to stay away. Bill, he could control. Add a couple more hot-tempered hunters into the mix, he and Dean could both end up dead. He raised his voice; it carried clearly to the approaching hunters.

"Bill. Lucifer is looking for me. Right now. Do you know why?"

Dean's eyes widened with panic. "Sam, _no_!"

Bill raked the sight of his pistol across Dean's head roughly. "Hell, I don't know," he sneered at Sam. "Maybe he's hot for you. Won't matter, soon. You'll be dead."

"Oh, it matters," Sam said quietly. "It matters a lot. I'm his vessel. His _true_ vessel."

"You son of a _bitch_!"

"The one he's got now is kind of a loaner." Sam smiled grimly. "It won't last long."

"That's just another damned good reason to kill you, Winchester," Bill spat.

"He'll burn through that body, and anyone else he squats in, pretty quick," Sam continued. "Until he gets hold of me. I'm a keeper."

The muzzle of the gun drifted toward Sam and then shifted quickly back to Dean.

Sam could hear the baited breath in the trees around them. "If I say yes," he said clearly, "the world ends. Because me and Lucifer? We're a match made in freaking heaven."

The hunter drew a deep breath, caressed the trigger of his gun.

"You're thinking if you kill me, it's all over." Sam said softly, and shook his head. "He'll just bring me back. Over and over again, until I say yes."

"What's your damned point?"

"My point is that if you kill Dean, I'll say yes."

Dean's eyes widened. "Sam -!"

Sam ignored him. "If Dean dies, I'll say yes. I swear –" he raised his hand toward Heaven – "I swear to _God_ I will."

He laughed and the sound of it was a little wild. "I don't care if the world burns. I don't care if every man, woman and child on the planet dies bloody. If Dean dies, I've got nothing left. Nothing but vengeance."

Sam took a step closer, face shadowed, eyes yellow. "So before you get careless with that gun, know this: Five minutes after Dean hits the ground, you'll be strung up on a rack in Hell and I'll be carving my initials into your fucking scrotum!"

Bill's breath, and his nerve, left him. His gun fell to the ground and Dean snatched it up, jumping to his feet.

Sam moved toward Bill, face hard, hands clenched. Blood trailed down his arm from the bullet in his shoulder, from his thigh.

"Sam, stop." Dean stepped in front of the cowed hunter, who was gaping at Sam with terrified fascination. Growling, Sam thrust Dean aside and, grasping Bill roughly by the back of the neck, jerked him around and shouted to the surrounding darkness.

"You assholes hear all that? You can't kill me -" he laughed bitterly. "Not permanently. And if you kill my brother, the world burns! _Do you hear me?"_

There was no answer. After a minute, they heard an engine start up, and tires burning rubber. Bill slumped in Sam's grip, defeated.

The fire faded from Sam's eyes. Still holding tight to his captive, he looked into his face for a long moment. "Good-bye, Bill."

Dean started forward. "_No_!"

With one quick, wrenching movement, Sam broke Bill's neck. Stunned, Dean froze, watched Sam release the body, saw it collapse to the ground.

"_Sammy!"_ he whispered.

Sam stared down at the crumpled body. He couldn't bring himself to regret killing him, not even for a moment.

Calm-eyed, he looked at his brother. "We have a job to do. Killing monsters and making sure Lucifer's ass gets kicked back to hell. I don't have the time or the energy to dick around with these guys."

"Jesus," Dean said, lips stiff.

"He would have come for us again. You know that," Sam said gently. "You remember what Carl said. He doesn't – didn't - like being beaten. He would have decided that I was bluffing about saying yes. He would have decided it was worth the risk."

Not sure if he wanted to hear the answer, Dean said, "_Were_ you bluffing?"

Sam didn't answer. That in itself, of course, was an answer. Heart-heavy at the stricken look on his brother's face, Sam looked toward the open grave.

"Good thing we haven't filled it in yet," he remarked. He took Bill's corpse by the back of its shirt, dragged it over to the grave and dumped it in on top of Kate's smoldering coffin. Working swiftly, he filled the grave in. Dean watched him, silent and afraid for his brother.

As they both stood over the now doubly-occupied grave, body and ashes, Sam gave the only epitaph Bill would ever have.

"Sometimes - humans just _need _killing."


	10. Chapter 10

We cannot destroy kindred: our chains stretch a little

sometimes but they never break.

Marquise de Sevigne

Suddenly aware of how much time had passed since the gunfire, and the fact that someone might have heard the shots and reported it, Dean said, "We gotta get the hell out of here."

"Yeah." Sam's voice was faint. "Oh. _Hey_."

Dean eyes dropped to his brother's shoulder, then down to his thigh. Blood was flowing sluggishly from both wounds. He cursed himself silently. Skinwalker blood or not, his brother _wasn't _bulletproof.

"I forgot." Sam sounded puzzled and, somehow, very young.

His older brother quickly crossed the short space between them. "Keep it together, okay? I don't want to have to drag your gigantor ass back to the car."

Sam's rueful grin gleamed white in the darkness. "I'll do my best."

Dean helped his brother over to a nearby tree and propped him against it. "Try not to fall down, okay, Princess?"

Sam nodded, trying to shake the fog from his brain.

Dean gathered their gear and then, burdened with both duffels _and _the shotgun slung over his shoulder, _and_ keeping his revolver in hand in case Bill's buddies decided to come back, took his brother by the arm. "You going to be able to stay on your feet?"

"I'm good," Sam said woozily. "The one in my leg went all the way through, and the shoulder's not that bad."

Dean noted the white line around Sam's mouth and grunted noncommittally. He put an arm around Sam's waist, took some of his weight. "Okay, Sasquatch. Time to get the hell out of Dodge."

By the time they reached the Impala, Sam was barely able to lift his feet from the ground. He slumped against the hood of the car, breathing hoarsely.

Dean tossed their gear into the trunk, put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You still in there, dude?"

Sam tried to smile, failed miserably. "Tired," he finally managed.

Dean patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "I'm gonna get a few miles behind us, then we'll stop and I'll take care of you. It looks like the bleeding's stopped, so you'll be fine."

Sam looked at him blearily, clearly not getting any of this, so Dean just opened the car door and maneuvered him into the back seat. Sam was so tired he didn't fight it, just folded in. He was asleep before the door closed.

Dean stared in at his sleeping brother, frowning. He didn't like this. He did _not_ like this.

What the freaking _hell _was going on with his brother?

He couldn't get it out of his head - the look on Sam' face when he'd killed the hunter, and when he'd explained his reasoning afterward. He hadn't looked angry, or crazed. He'd looked calm. _Practical_. Like it made perfect sense to kill the guy.

One plus one equals Kill Bill. Like it made _sense_.

And, Dean supposed, it kind of did. But killing an unarmed man? That _wasn't _Sam. His brother had always been about mercy and second chances. It had nearly gotten them killed on more than one occasion.

Had the demon blood changed him that much? The skinwalker poison?

And when he'd sworn to say yes, if Dean died. Was Sam really unbalanced enough to believe that Dean's death justified the death of the entire world? Dean's life against six _billion_?

Getting moodily into the car, he started up the Impala and pulled her out of the cemetery's parking lot. Once they were out on the road, he took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial.

"Bobby?" he said grimly. "We gotta talk."

Sam was floating, warm.

_Safe_.

Lucifer looked down at him, sprawled out on the grass in a pool of warm sunshine. He sat down beside him, reached out and caressed his forehead - ran a light finger down his cheek - ghosted across his lips.

"Sam." He smiled fondly. "The more you fight, the more I want you."

A butterfly flitted by on an errant breeze and he warmed at the reminder of his Father's wondrous creation.

Sam stirred and Lucifer gentled him with a glance. "So strong, so stubborn. So like _me_." He cocked his head, frowned slightly at the sleeping man.

"Did you mean it, Sam? If Dean were gone - if I reached out and stopped your brother's heart - would you be mine?"

Sam stirred uneasily. Lucifer leaned over and kissed his forehead comfortingly, sent him deeper into sleep.

"No, no, dear love. Don't worry. I won't do it - you'd never forgive me."

He sat brooding, running his hand through Sam's hair, studying his young King's face.

"I heard what you said about staying changed, Sam," he whispered at last.

"It does sound like fun -" and his eyes held much the same expression Sam's had, thinking about freedom and the mountain - "but it doesn't really fit in with my plans."

He ran a hand up Sam's arm, over his chest.

"I hate to take the cat away from you, but" - he shook his head sadly - " I have no choice. You're mine - my _only _one - I won't risk losing you."

Leaning in, he kissed Sam gently on the mouth. "I'm afraid this might hurt _just _a little." He pressed a hand over Sam's heart, sent a low pulse of energy into it.

Sam moaned, thrashing under his hand. As Lucifer increased the pulse, Sam struggled up toward the surface.

Lucifer's features shifted.

Sam's eyes opened wide. Smiling, Jessica leaned over and kissed him lingeringly on the mouth. "Darling."

"Jess!" Sam pulled her close, put his face against hers, kissed her. "Oh God, _Jess_."

"_Sam," _she breathed_. "_My one. My _only_."

Unbelieving, Sam leaned into her. Was this real? Was she really here? Closing himself to doubt, he stroked her golden hair, kissed her sweet lips. His beautiful Jessica, his sweet girl. He could never love another.

Skin to skin. Heart to heart. In the timeless way that dreams have, they clung together. After a eternity, she pulled away from him. "I have to go, Sam."

Pain filled hazel eyes. "Jess, no."

"I love you, Sam," she said sweetly.

"Jess, please," he begged. "I'm so sorry. I'd give _anything _to bring you back."

"It's all right, Sam. It wasn't not your fault," Jessica said sadly. "You couldn't have saved me." She started to fade.

Frantic, he tried to hold her, but his hands passed right through her.

"Jess, no!" he screamed, frantic.

She disappeared, but he could still feel her arms around him, comfortingly.

"Go back to sleep, Sam," Jessica whispered. "I'll stay."

Held by her, content, Sam sank back down into sleep. Into dreams.

Silent laughter rumbled in the chest of the Prince of Lies. He was well satisfied.

Dean drove through the rest of the night, Sam insensible on the seat behind him. When they got to Bobby's he was still asleep.

Dean shook Sam by the shoulder. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty! Wake up!"

Sam blinked groggily. "What?" He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looked out of the car window, saw Bobby's house, the yard. "What're we doing here?"

"You got shot, bro. You could use some down time," Dean said matter-of-factly.

Sam looked down at himself. His shirt hung open, the bandage on his shoulder plainly visible. His pants were still on, but he could feel a bandage on his thigh underneath them.

Moving slowly he pulled himself out of the car and stood still for a moment, feeling himself out.

Dean watched him warily. "How do you feel?"

"Good," Sam answered, in some surprise. "I feel pretty good." He looked at Dean, saw him frown.

"What's wrong?" he said, confused. "Why should it worry you that I feel good?"

"I'm glad you're feeling good, Sam," Dean said, annoyed with himself for being so transparent. "I guess I'm just still a little freaked out about -"

A shadow fell over Sam's face. "Bill," he said flatly.

At that point Bobby came out of the house. He saw the tension in their faces and divined the reason for it immediately.

"Are you _still _goin' on about that?" he snapped angrily at Dean. "Stop sweating goddamned Bill! I would have killed the bastard myself if Sam hadn't of done it!"

Dean nodded, but the uneasy look on his face remained.

Sam's throat closed. "I'm going to go take a shower," he said thickly. Waving away Dean's tentative offer of help, he limped heavily past Bobby with his head down.

Bobby watched him go, then looked at Dean. "What the _hell _is wrong with you?"

"Bobby," Dean protested. "You didn't see it. He broke Bill's neck - he didn't even have to use both hands. One hand and Boom! The guy was dead."

"Would it make you feel better if he'd used a gun. Or a knife?" Bobby asked sarcastically. "Damn it, boy, did Bill hold a gun to your head or not?"

Frustrated, Dean nodded.

"And correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't this his second shot at killing Sam?"

"Yes, but -"

"Dean," Bobby interrupted him. "Think. What would have happened if Sam had let him go?"

"He'd have stayed on our asses until he killed us," Dean admitted. "But Bobby, it's just not _Sam_ to do something like that. He -"

"_Damn it_!" Bobby shouted. He stopped, fighting for control. "When are you going to stop treating your brother like a goddamned monster!"

Dean went white, almost staggered back. He opened his mouth, closed it. "I'm not - I don't -"

"No?" Bobby asked acidly.

Dean turned away from him, confusion warring with anger. Of course he didn't treat Sam like a monster. He'd _never_ thought of him as a monster, not even after the skinwalker bit him.

Except - when he'd found his brother with Ruby, before he'd killed Lilith. He _had _called Sam a monster then. But he hadn't meant it, he _hadn't_. He was just upset about Sam going to Ruby, about him drinking demon blood. He would never hurt his brother. He loved Sam. More than himself, more than anything else in life. _Or _death.

Dean looked at Bobby, eyes pained. "Is that what I've been doing?" he asked softly.

Bobby sighed. He hadn't wanted to hurt Dean, knew how the boy felt about his little brother. But it needed to be said. "When you keep expecting the worst from someone, sooner or later they're just going to oblige you."

Dean closed his eyes. "_Crap_. I'm sorry."

"_I'm _not the one you should be apologizing to, bonehead."

Sam pulled himself up the stairs. In the bathroom, he pulled off his clothes and started the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go. When he climbed in, he stood slumped against the wall, head bowed, letting the scalding water pound into him.

_I can't take this any more. _

His belief that he was absolutely doing the right thing in killing Bill hadn't shielded his heart from the pain over the path he'd chosen. He could still see the fear in Bill's eyes, still feel the crack of his neck as he'd killed him. Another death on his conscience. Another nail in the coffin of his supposed humanity.

And the way Dean had looked at him when he'd killed the hunter - the way he was _still _looking at him. That hurt. It shouldn't - he knew he deserved it, and worse, after this last year, but still. It _hurt_.

Dean had said he'd forgiven him for what had happened with Ruby, with Lilith, but that had clearly been a lie. He was still waiting for Sam's dark side to appear, for Azazel's plan to come to fruition - for Sam to say _yes_ to Lucifer.

Tears started and he turned his face into the water. He felt raw, flayed. How much longer could he bear it - knowing that the person he loved most in the world, the one who'd raised him, the man who'd been a father as well as a brother, thought he was a monster?

There was a loud knock on the door, and it opened. "Hey, Sammy, don't use up all the hot water!"

Sam didn't answer, just leaned down and wearily turned off the water. He tugged down the towel he'd draped over the top of the shower curtain and started drying off.

"Sam." Dean's voice was hesitant. "Listen, I'm sorry about before. You were right. Bill would have just kept coming."

Sam sighed. "Don't, Dean."

"Don't what?"

"Don't apologize just because Bobby ripped you a new one." Sam wrapped the towel around his waist, pulled open the curtain and stepped out. "Shower's yours. There's plenty of hot water."

"Sam, I mean it, I'm sorry," Dean said again. "Yeah," he admitted when Sam shot a skeptical look at him. "Bobby ripped me a new one, but he was right. _You _were right. I was being an asshole. Bill was like Gordon, just without the fangs."

Sam turned away from him, pulled a clean pair of jeans out of his duffel. "Whatever."

Dean touched his arm. "Sam -"

Sam pulled violently away. "No!" A tear ran down his cheek and he brushed it away angrily. "I am _not_ a monster!"

Dean flinched. "Sam, I am so freaking sorry I ever said that to you. I don't think you're a monster."

"No?" Sam challenged him. "Is that why you watch me all the time? Is that why you keep calling Bobby to talk about me?"

He saw Dean's guilty start and said bitterly, "I can't keep apologizing forever. And I can't take you blaming for what I _might _do some day. If you can't trust me, just leave me. I'll be -" there was a small, desolate hitch in his breath - "_fine_ on my own."

As Dean stared at him, stunned, Sam pulled on his jeans, and pushed past him out of the bathroom.

Recovering, Dean ran after him. "Damn it, wait!"

Sam ran down the stairs, Dean close behind him. Drawn by the ruckus, Bobby met them at the foot of the stairs. "What the hell?"

Sam tried to get past him. Bobby grabbed his arm, then stopped and did a double-take. "Jesus H. _Christ_!"

Sam shrank back as if expecting a blow. Seeing that, Bobby let go of him and said gently, "You idjit, _look_." He pointed to Sam's forearm.

Baffled, Sam shook his head. "What?"

Dean put a steadying hand on his brother's back. "Holy crap!" he breathed. "I didn't notice before!"

"You guys are freaking me out," Sam said tightly. "What's going on?"

"The scar, Sammy, the scar!" Dean said excitedly. "It's gone!"

Sam looked down. His arm, though criss-crossed with faint scars from other, earlier battles did _not _carry the scar from the bite of the skinwalker. Sam gasped, the blood rushing from his head. He fell back against Dean, who lowered him quickly to sit at the bottom of the stairs. "Easy, Sam!"

Head swimming, Sam sat, fighting for air. Dean sat next to him on the stairs, grinning madly. "Son of a bitch, Sammy! Son of a bitch!"

Sam turned to him. "It's gone? Is it gone? Does that mean it's over?" He tried to calm his racing heart, afraid to believe, afraid to even hope.

"I'm a moron, Sammy!" Dean shouted with excitement. "The scar was there when I dressed your shoulder wound, I know it was. And now it's gone, just freaking gone! That _has _to mean it's over. Cas - maybe it was Cas!" He jumped up. "Has Castiel been around?"

"I haven't seen him," Bobby said. He looked into Dean's beaming face, down at Sam's dazed expression. "I don't know, it - let's not get too excited. Be a hell of a let down if we're wrong."

Dean saw Sam's face fall, shook his head emphatically. "Sam, no, this is good, it has to be. A scar like that doesn't just vanish, it takes years to fade. You can't even see where it was anymore!"

Sam leaned back against the banister. He felt sick. _Can't. Can't keep doing this._ _Can't._

Almost frantic to take that lost look away from his brother's face, Dean said, "Let's test it, like before! Come on!" He pulled Sam up from the stairs and dragged him into the kitchen, Bobby following close behind. He opened the refrigerator, got out some cold fried chicken and raw bacon, then pulled the vodka out of the freezer.

"You stay here," he instructed Sam and Bobby. "Stay here! I'll be right back!" He raced out of the kitchen.

Sam stood still in the middle of the room, almost afraid to breathe. Bobby patted his shoulder soothingly. "It's okay, kid. It's okay."

After a couple of minutes, the kitchen door slammed open again and Dean rushed back in. "Okay, let's go! Same as before. You find where I hid the stuff!"

They all trooped outside, Dean bouncing up and down excitedly. The three of them stood in front of the house.

"I'm gonna close my eyes so I can't give it away," Dean said. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "Go, Sammy! Fetch!" He laughed, almost frantic with fear and hope. _You're not gonna find anything, Sammy! You're not, I know you're not!_

Hearing nothing, after a minute Dean opened his eyes. Sam was standing still, head raised to the air, eyes closed. "Sam?"

With a sudden wheezing gulp of air, Sam turned to him, eyes wide with astonishment and joy. "Dean!" Shaking, he grabbed his brother's arm. "It's gone! I can't track you. It's gone!"

With a whoop, Bobby pounded Sam on the back. Dean grabbed his brother in a rib-squeezing hug, tears shining in his eyes.

"Thank you, God," Sam said fervently. "_Thank you_." He raised his face to the sun, goose pimples rising up his bare chest, and spun in a slow circle, eyes closed.

Dean and Bobby watched him, huge smiles splitting their faces.

Sam turned to them, eyes swimming with tears, smiling. "Guys, I'm free again - I'm free!"

Later that day.

The three hunters sat around the kitchen table, eating huge amounts of scrambled eggs, bacon and French toast. They ate until they were full to bursting, talked about nothing that mattered a damn and laughing about everything that did.

Sam finally pushed himself back from the table with a groan. "Man, one more bite and I'll explode."

Dean nodded, rubbing his stomach with satisfaction. "Bobby, you make the best damned french toast in the world."

Bobby toasted him with his cup of coffee. "Thanks to years of cooking for you two galoots."

Dean groaned. "Damn, Bobby, who the hell says galoots! What the hell _is_ a galoot, anyway!" Bobby cuffed him playfully and Dean laughed.

Sam watched contentedly as his brother and Bobby bantered back and forth. He was tired, but it was a good tired. He could almost believe that when he slept tonight there would be no dreams, no visitors - no torment.

Almost.

And if Lucifer did come? Screw him. Screw fate, screw destiny. He would just say no. He could _always _say no, if he had Dean standing beside him.

He knew that his brother still had reservations, no matter what he'd said earlier, no matter how happy he was now. There was nothing to be done about that. They were only human - there were no absolutes.

Dean turned to him, gave him a heart-stoppingly happy smile. "You okay, Sammy?"

"I'm good, Dean." Sam smiled back at his brother. "I'm great."

For right now, that was true for all of them.

And it was enough.

THE END

I hope you all like the ending. Have to admit I'm going to miss "Changing." It was my first-born, after all. J


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